


Begin at the Beginning

by TristansGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Key Fic (Prostitution), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the boys are not brothers, there is a brothel and a whole buttload of angst</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam had been expecting this birthday to be one of his worst. He’d gone to bed the night before dreading it and he’d woken up in the morning wishing it could be over.

For a brief moment as he was brushing his teeth, he considered just going right back to bed and sleeping the day away, but as always, a sense of responsibility kept him from doing so. Instead he got up, and played at living. He went to his classes in the morning and afternoon, and afterward he dutifully worked on the two papers that were due the following week.

And the entire time, the specter of Jess was never far from him. It followed him to his law classes and it shimmered beside him in the car as he drove back home. Its insubstantial fingers grazed his as he sat down to type at his computer, causing him to shiver against their cold touch.  
He knew he was being haunted, but not by an ghost that was made up of ectoplasm or whatever the hell they were made of. He was haunted by memories and regret. He was haunted by what could have been; by what should have been.

By the time that the sun had dipped below the horizon, he was more than ready to drink himself into a stupor so he could seek oblivion from this miserable day.

He had just cracked open the first beer when his doorbell rang, startling him from his thoughts. He looked at the clock, wondering who could possibly be here; he certainly wasn’t expecting anyone.

He opened the door, surprised to see his two closest friends standing in the hallway, holding twelve packs of beer and grinning like idiots.

“Happy birthday,” they said in unison.

Despite himself, a smile began to tug at the corners of Sam’s mouth. “How did you guys know?”

“Duh,” said Warren, the one he had counted a friend the longest. “We know when your birthday is.”

“But I haven’t mentioned it. Neither did you guys. I thought you’d forgotten.”

Brad, the youngest of them all, waved one of the twelve packs around. “Couldn’t forget your birthday, Sammy. We just wanted to surprise you.”

And with that, they jostled past him into the apartment, making straight for the kitchen.

Sam closed the door and followed them. “Guys, I appreciate the thought. I do. But I think I should just get to bed,” he said as he watched them making themselves at home.

“No way, Sam,” Warren said. He put all the beer in the fridge except for three bottles, which he brought with him to the living room. “We know what you’re going to do. You’re gonna mope. And it’s not good for you to be alone today.”

Sam looked at his friends, at the way they were trying so hard to seem as if this were all casual and they were not worried about him, and felt absurdly touched. He grabbed his own recently opened beer and held it up.

“Fine. Drink up, then.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four beers later, and Sam found he was grateful that his friends had stopped by after all and told them so.

The sly, silly looks that appeared on their faces caused him to lean back, suddenly feeling wary. He knew them too well. They were up to something.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Warren gave a mischievous smile. “We got you something for your birthday.”

Sam relaxed only a little at the words. “You guys didn’t have to get me anything.”

Brad shrugged. “Maybe not, but we wanted to.”

Warren poked Brad in the shoulder. “Give it to him.”

Brad nodded and pulled something from inside his jacket pocket. It was a small white box, no bigger than a wallet. It was completely unassuming, but something about it made Sam’s breath catch in his throat. “What is that?”

“Open it.”

He took the box from Brad and held it in his hand. He looked down at it, then back up at them. They were both staring at it with eager, yet almost respectful, looks on their faces.

“Open it,” Warren whispered.

Sam lifted the box’s lid and peered inside. Inside of the box’s satin interior, lay a key. Ornate and beautiful, but just a key.

Puzzled, he held it up. “What is this?”

“The question you should be asking is: what does it open?”

“Ok, I’ll bite. What does it open?”

“Have you ever heard of the Palace?” Warren asked.

“No. Should I have?”

“It’s...well...it’s kind of a brothel.”

“A what?”

“A brothel. Right on the outskirts of the city,” Warren said.

It all came together for Sam at the mention of that one word. He looked at his friends in amazement. “You guys got me a whore?”

“Now, it’s not like that. This place is different. It’s really classy. They don’t call them whores. They call them companions. Brad and I got you a guy for one night.”

“Well, it’s not a full night. It’s for four hours,” Brad interjected.

“I cannot believe you guys!” Sam yelled as stood up and tossed the key aside. “Why would you think that this is ok? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Warren stood up and stepped in front of Sam. “Sam, just listen for a minute, ok?”

“Jess...”

“Jess is dead, Sam. He’s been dead for over a year now.”

“Don’t.”

“Jess was a great guy, Sam. He was the best. God, I think Brad and I loved him almost as much as you did. But he’s not here anymore. And you are. And you need to let him go and start living again.”

“Aw jeez,” Sam said as he sat back down heavily in his chair and wiped at his eyes. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past fourteen months?”

“You’ve been existing. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But you have to start living, Sam. Sooner or later, you have to get back out there.”

“So fucking some prostitute is the way to do that, is that what you’re saying?”

Warren and Brad exchanged looks. Then Warren backed away and Brad dropped to his knees in front of Sam. It all reminded Sam of some kind of absurd double-team wrestling match. “We’re saying that it’s one night for you to enjoy yourself a little. That’s all.”

Warren picked up the key and held it in front of Sam. “Just one night, Sam. This Saturday.”

Sam eyed it, then slowly took from him. He felt defeated and suddenly very tired. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, man. Brad and I dished out some money for this. This guy wasn’t cheap.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh at that and instantly he felt better. Somehow, Warren always knew the one thing to say that would make him laugh, no matter how stupid or inappropriate it was.

“Besides, Sam. The guy is hot. If I wasn’t straight, I’d do him myself. Hell, I’ll probably do him if you decide not to go, cause they don’t give refunds, you know?”

Sam shook his head and chuckled. “Oh God...fine. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but fine. I’ll go cause you guys already spent the money. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sleep with the guy.”

“You do whatever you want, Sammy. Fuck him, talk to him, bake cookies with him...we don’t care. Just as long as you get out of this apartment.”

Sam looked down at the key in his hand. It was heavy, solid. He could only imagine what kind of door it opened. “I don’t know what to say. Somehow ‘thanks for getting me a prostitute’ just doesn’t seem quite right.”

“You know we love you, Sammy. We just want you to be happy, that’s all,” Brad said as he stood.

“And we want you to get laid so you don’t explode,” Warren added.

The laughter that erupted from that comment quickly erased whatever residual tension still clung to them.

“Thanks guys,” Sam said as the laughter began to die down. “Thanks for everything. And listen, this is has been great, but I really should...”

“Say no more,” Warren said. “We gotta get going ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Brad said as he grabbed his things. “We’ll talk to you tomorrow, ok?”

Sam nodded and walked them to the door, promising to call them tomorrow after class.

Then he closed the door behind them and leaned against it. With a weary sigh, he lifted the key and turned it over and over in his fingers. What would Jess think about this?

He grasped the key hard, enjoying the feel of the cool metal in his hands. Jess would probably think it was hilarious. He’d probably want to film the whole encounter so he could preserve it for embarrassing posterity.

He wiped away the tears streaming down his cheeks even as a smile graced his face. This bittersweet nostalgia could be like a punch in the gut sometimes.

He shook his head as if to clear it before tossing the key onto the sofa and walking into the bedroom.

Once again, oblivion was starting to sound really good.

He crawled into bed and stared through the darkness at the picture of the of the beautiful brown-eyed boy that sat on his night stand. Even without the benefit of sight, he could see him. He knew every line, every plane of that face.

“I miss you, Jess,” he whispered.

“God, I miss you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Every day for the next four days, Sam swore to himself that he was not going to go to the Palace. He couldn’t imagine what he’d been thinking when he’d agreed to go, but now that he was in his right mind, he could see that he’d made a mistake.

He would just have to tell his friends that he had changed his mind. He would apologize, offer to pay them back whatever ungodly amount of money they had coughed up and that would be that.

And all during those four days of swearing oaths only to himself and finding excuses to give to his friends, he never once even glanced at the key that he had set on his kitchen counter.

Not once.

So no one could be more surprised than he when he found himself sliding into his car at six on Saturday night, the key snug in his pocket.

Shielded from the world by his tinted windows, he assured himself that he was only going because Warren and Brad had spent money on this. He told himself that he was going to go, check things out, and leave after a few minutes.

His revised plan firmly decided, he followed the directions given to him by his friends. After almost an hour’s drive, he was on the very outskirts of town, surrounded by river to the north and deep forest to the south, east and west. And in the middle of it all, looming over the entire landscape like some displaced sentinel, stood a wide, stately chateau.

It was large - larger than any mansion he had ever seen, including his parents’.

As he drove in through the wrought iron gates at its entrance, he marveled at the fact that he had lived here his entire life and had never even known this place existed.

How could he not have known about this? And more importantly, how did Brad and Warren know when he didn’t?

Making a mental note to interrogate them about it later, he pulled the car up to the front of the chateau. A man in a valet uniform came rushing out a moment later, and as soon as his car had been whisked away, a doorman came to usher him in through the massive double doors of the estate.

Once inside, he was escorted into a room just to the side of the grand foyer. There, behind a tall, oaken desk sat an older gentleman, looking very proper in his suit and tie.

As Sam stepped up to the desk, he tried to shake the feeling of having just fallen down the rabbit hole.

“Sir?”

Realizing that the man had been speaking and he hadn’t been paying attention, he shook his head to clear it. “Oh, umm . . . yes?”

“Will you be stepping into the lounge, or do you already have a key?”

“Oh, I . . . ” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key, holding it up for the man’s inspection. “I have a key.”

“Excellent!” the man exclaimed. “May I?” And with that, he took the key from Sam’s hand and placed it somewhere behind the desk. A moment later, he held up another key, one which looked identical to the one he’d been ignoring for days.

“The actual key, sir,” he said as he presented it to Sam.

Sam took it, peering at it. “The other one wasn’t the real thing?” he asked.

The man gave an indulgent smile. “The real keys never leave the building.” Then he waved yet another young man in uniform over. “The page will take you to your companion’s room. If there is anything you require for your stay, please ask your companion. He will make certain that all your needs are met.”

Sam, feeling a little too overwhelmed to form a complete sentence, merely nodded.

The man designated as page led him through the foyer and toward the elevators. As they walked, they passed a room filled with men, women, music and laughter. From Sam’s vantage point, it had the look and feel of a cocktail party.

Curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “What’s in there?”

“That,” said the page, “is the lounge area. That’s where one finds a companion for the evening.”

“Oh.”

“But yours is already upstairs waiting for you.”

“Oh,” he repeated, taking one last look at the room.

The page then directed him into the elevator, which they rode in silence up to the third floor. From there, he followed the page down a softly lit hallway until they reached their destination. Sam, so busy trying to take everything in that he wasn’t watching where he was going, almost collided with the other man when he stopped in front of one of the doors.

“Your companion’s room, sir,” the page said with a flourish and a wave of his hand.

Sam eyed the door, then the key in his hand, then the door again.

“Sir? Aren’t you going to go inside?”

“I...”

The man looked at him knowingly, as if he could somehow access Sam’s private thoughts and see to the reason for his hesitation. “You did come all this way. You might as well see what’s inside.”

“I guess it won’t hurt to just go inside, right?”

“No. It won’t hurt, sir.”

Sam nodded, then moving quickly so as not to change his mind, he placed the key into the lock, turned it, and gave the door a little shove.

He looked toward the page to see his reaction, but the man was already gone, now nothing but a shadow in the hallway.

He turned back to the open, waiting door.

Forward or backward.

Now or never.

Taking a deep, bolstering breath, he stepped inside the room, barely noticing when the door shut with a soft click behind him.

He stood in a spacious bedroom, decorated in masculine shades of blue and gray. The furniture in the room was dark mahogany, yet the glowing candles placed strategically around the room bathed it all in golden light, softening it and giving it a delicate air. It was an interesting contrast and Sam couldn’t help but be impressed.

Now, the only thing that seemed to be missing was his companion for evening.

'Which was just fine with him,' he thought as he made to move backward. He had come and he had seen. So what if he hadn’t conquered? And now he could leave and go on with the rest of his life.

But just as he was about to open the door, a figure emerged from the flickering shadows to stand in the honeyed light.

Sam’s first thought upon seeing him was that he was not looking at a flesh and blood creature, but that somehow it was a Greek god that stood before him. With his striking eyes, chiseled cheekbones and full lips, Sam felt certain that no one could mistake him for anything else.

And then he smiled and the illusion ended and Sam was looking at only a man and not a modern-day Apollo. Not that the smile made him any less beautiful; it merely made him more accessible.

“Hi. You must be Adam. I’m Dean.”

“Adam?” Sam said in confusion. “Oh, that’s not . . . I must be in the wrong room . . . ”

The man’s brilliant smile faltered by a degree. “Can I see the key?”

Sam held it out in his palm and watched as the smile returned with a vengeance. “That’s my key. You’re in the right room.”

“But my name’s Sam.”

“Hmm. Maybe your friends were trying to protect your identity.” Dean shrugged. “Happens a lot around here.”

“Oh, ok,” Sam said, inwardly wincing at how inarticulate this place seemed to be making him.

“So . . . should I call you Adam or Sam?” Dean asked with a hint of tease in his voice.

“Sam,” he said, replying a little too quickly. Then with forced calm, he added, “Call me Sam.”

“Well, Sam . . . I’m Dean. I’ll be your companion for the evening,” he said as he took a few graceful steps back.

Watching Dean move, Sam had to hand it to his friends. They had picked a stunner, but one who was so different from Jess that it wouldn’t be painful just to look at him. Where Jess had been fair, this man was dark. Where Jess had been tall and lanky, this man was wide about the chest and shoulders. Jess had always worn his hair just a bit too long, but this man sported short hair, so short it looked almost military.

“Well, come on in. Don’t be shy.”

Sam, startled out of his thoughts, did just that, stepping further into the room than he’d ever intended.

Before he knew it, Dean was standing in front of him. And looking even better now that he was only an arm’s length away.

Dean stared up at him from pretty, dark lashes and breathed out, “So. How can I please you tonight, Sam?”

A heat which he hadn’t felt since Jess had been killed flared up through his body. Sam stumbled away from the words and the sinful voice that produced them. How he managed to keep his balance and not fall flat on his face, he would never know.

He looked toward the door, knowing that he should leave. Hell, he never should have come here in the first place. He turned back to Dean, ready to give an excuse as to why he had to go, but instead, what came out of his mouth was, “Oh, umm . . . how about a tour?”

He could have kicked himself for saying something so stupid. A tour? And hadn’t he just a moment ago been trying to figure out how to get out of here?

Dean looked taken aback at the request, but to his credit, he quickly recovered. “Sure. A tour.” He stepped back and held out one arm as if to encompass the room. “This is the bedroom, obviously,” he said with a small wink before pointing to one corner. “That’s the bar, fully stocked.”

“Fully?”

“Oh yeah. I make a pretty mean Cosmo if you’re up for it.”

The sentence came with another wink and a sly grin and Sam couldn’t help but chuckle, relaxing by degrees despite himself. “Impressive,” he said.

And then he turned away, not so much because he wanted to, but because he had too. Because Dean was suddenly too close again and he could see that his eyes held tones of green and gold so beautiful it hurt to look at them.

So he turned toward the wall instead, where a panel caught his eye. “What are . . . ?” The question died on his lips when he realized what he was looking at. It was a hanging assortment of sex toys - ranging from the mundane to the sinister. His eyes lingered the longest on the worst of them - whips, knives, cuffs . . .

“Those are toys. We can play with them if you’d like.”

The words were spoken seductively enough, but Sam had caught the cold, dead undertone in Dean’s voice.

He backed away from the implements with a shiver of disgust. “No, that’s ok.” And then, because he felt he needed something, anything, to distract them both, he asked, “Umm . . . what’s over there?”

“Ah that . . . that is the bathroom. Come take a look.”

The bathroom, decorated in blue, gray and gold, was just as impressive as the bedroom had been.

“As you can see - the shower and the tub fit two,” Dean said as he motioned to them with his hand.

Sam could only nod blankly.

“Do you feel up to getting wet?” Dean asked as he took a couple of steps toward him.

Sam inadvertently stumbled back, his eyes searching wildly for another distraction. If he could just get a moment to get his bearings . . .

Then he spotted the door at the other end of the bathroom. “What’s in there?” he asked.

Quicker than lightning, the breathy voice and the glint of mischief in Dean’s eyes disappeared. “Oh, you don’t want to go in there.”

“Well, why not?”

“It’s just . . . my living quarters. They’re small. They’re not that nice.”

But instead of putting Sam off, Dean’s words only served to intrigue him.“I’d like to go in,” he said, curious as to how far he could push it. He supposed that if Dean refused, he would just have to accept his answer and make his excuses and leave.

But Dean didn’t refuse. “Of course. Whatever you’d like, Sam.”

Once again, Dean’s voice had an undercurrent of something dead. Something . . . wrong.

Someone else might not have caught it.

But Sam did. And he felt like a complete heel for causing it.

Yet Dean still managed a smile as he stepped past him to open the mystery door.

“Go on in,” he said as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Aren’t you coming?” Sam asked.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Sam shrugged and, stepping past the other man, went inside.

Dean had been right. It was a small room, roughly about the same size as the bathroom. This room was painted a light tan color, and the furniture was worn but inviting. Posters hung on the walls and books and magazines filled two bookcases. There was a tv in the corner, and next to it, stood what appeared to be a fairly impressive sound system.

With a flash of guilt, Sam realized that he was probably invading Dean’s sanctuary and his privacy. And despite feeling ashamed, his insatiable curiosity propelled him forward.

So he began to walk around the small room, taking everything in, but being respectful enough to touch nothing.

“There’s really nothing in here,” Dean’s voice called from the doorway.

“I wouldn’t say that. You have . . . wait.” He stopped in front of the stereo system. “Are these cassette tapes?”

Dean, reacting to the undisguised wonder in Sam’s voice, crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned. “Yeah.”

“Wow. I didn’t think anybody had these things anymore. Motorhead, Metallica, AC/DC.” He turned his head so that he could look at Dean properly. “It’s a nice collection.”

Dean finally stepped into the room - wearing a sincere smile at last. “Thanks.”

“And are these . . . ? Whoa. Are these LPs?”

Dean stepped forward until he and Sam were shoulder to shoulder. “Yup.”

“I didn’t think they made these anymore.”

“Hell yeah, they still make ‘em. It’s not like they’re from the stone age.”

Sam shuffled through them. “Led Zeppelin. Jimi Hendrix. Pink Floyd. Blue Oyster Cult. You got anything past the 70's here?”

“Oh, and what are you listening to? Kelly Clarkson?” Dean asked.

Sam turned to him, saw that Dean was smiling. He returned it and was about to reply when something else caught his eye. The LPs temporarily forgotten, he moved toward the new find.

Cars. Four of them - small models of sleek, classic cars that would turn heads were they driven on actual streets.

“You build these yourself?”

Dean sidled up beside him. “Guy needs a hobby.”

“Wow. This one’s beautiful,” he said as his fingers ghosted over one of them; a black car.

“It’s a . . . ” Dean began.

“A ‘67 Impala,” Sam finished.

“You know your cars,” Dean laughed.

“A little,” Sam admitted.

“Well, that one there’s my pride and joy,” Dean said, showing more animation than he’d shown since Sam had arrived. “One day, I’m gonna . . . ” but then the flow of words came to a halt and he looked away.

“One day what?” Sam prodded.

“Nothing,” Dean mumbled, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“You can’t start a sentence like that and not finish it.”

“I was just gonna say, that I used to own a ‘67 Impala, but I had to sell it. One day . . . I’ll own that car again one day, that’s all.”

Dean’s face, somehow even more beautiful in sadness, made something inside Sam ache. There was obviously more to the story than what Dean had told him. And he wanted to know more.

But then he realized, with almost excruciating clarity, that he wanted to know more about Dean period.

And that notion scared the hell out of him.

And fascinated the hell out of him at the same time.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be all right if he stayed a little longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean looked at the tall, handsome man in front of him and mentally kicked himself for what he was doing. He was supposed to be seducing this guy - his friends had certainly paid enough money for that to happen - but instead he was standing here talking to him as if they were forming a friendship. Telling him things that he didn’t tell to anyone.

This was ridiculous and he’d allowed it to go on for far too long. Time to do what he was being paid to do.

He placed his hand on Sam’s arm and tugged at him. “Come on.”

Sam, to his surprise, followed, so he gently pulled and guided him until they were both back in the bedroom. “Come on. You don’t want to spend all night looking at my model cars, do you?”

Sam ducked his head, looking bashful. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You know what you need?” Dean asked. “You need to relax a little. I can tell from here that you’re wound up tight as a drum.”

“And what do you suggest, Dean?”

“How about a drink? A Cosmo’s not the only thing that I can make.”

“I’m not really a big drinker,” Sam said, shaking his head. “A couple drinks and I’m doing karaoke.”

Dean held up a hand. “I know just the thing. How about a massage? I give a mean deep tissue.”

And just like that, the grim, haunted look was back on Sam’s face. “I don’t know. I really don’t think I should even be here.”

‘Stupid, Dean. Stupid,’ he thought, resisting the urge to slap his forehead.

He had to think of how to save this; Fagan could be watching by now. “Sam, come on. It’s just a massage, that’s all,” he said. Then he placed the most innocent look on his face that he could muster and hoped that Sam wouldn’t see through it.

“I guess, maybe . . . a massage doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Good!” Dean said as he clapped his hands together. “You can set your shirt down on the bed.”

Sam looked down at his shirt as if the concept of having to take it off to get a massage had never occurred to him. As Dean watched him fumble with the buttons, he wondered what kind of man Sam was. He couldn’t quite tell if he was merely shy, or uncomfortable with the situation. Dean supposed he could be a virgin, and that his getting laid was some sort of present from his friends. That would explain a lot, but still . . . he had the feeling that this man was experienced. No, there was something going on here, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

When Sam finally finished unbuttoning the shirt, he folded it neatly and set it down on the far corner of the bed. Then he looked at Dean as if waiting for instruction.

Dean had to suppress the urge to whistle. Sam was hiding a very nice body underneath the heavy shirt. Very nice, indeed.

“You lie on the bed,” he told him. “I’ll go get the massage oil.”

Once Sam was lying face-down, Dean walked quickly to the dresser and pulled out the oil. Normally he would have taken the time to heat it, but he had the feeling that Sam was still about two seconds from bolting. And if he left now, Fagan would be seriously pissed. He glanced up at the near-invisible camera in the corner as he rubbed the oil into his palms. Then he gave a small wink, just in case they were watching, and walked over to where Sam was waiting.

He straddled the other man, careful not to put any real pressure on him, and then placed his hands on his back.

Sam cursed and jumped at the contact.

“Sorry. It’s a little cold, but it’ll warm up in a second.”

“S’ok,” he murmured, settling back down.

Using slow, methodical strokes, Dean began to rub. Just as he had suspected, Sam’s back was hard and resisting, it felt like he was massaging at iron blocks rather than muscle. The guy was most definitely uptight. But he kept at it, and after a few minutes, he felt the muscles underneath his hands begin to relax.

After another minute or two, Dean heard a soft groan escape Sam’s lips. “Feel good?” he asked, knowing damn well that it did.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled.

Another few minutes in, and Sam’s body had gone completely lax and a near constant stream of groans issued from his mouth.

Knowing that the man underneath him was ready for the next step, Dean moved up and turned Sam gently over onto his back, then settled back down. He stared down at his face and took a moment to study the parted lips and the sleepy eyes.

He felt like he had hit the jackpot. Not only was this guy easy on the eyes, but he was actually nice. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had actually liked one of his customers.

He leaned down, thinking that for once, he wasn’t going to hate having to do this. Then he captured Sam’s mouth in a soft, gentle kiss. He knew that he had to move slowly. There was still something about Sam that reminded him of a skittish colt. He had a feeling that pushing him could be disastrous.

But Sam surprised him by responding with such a passionate intensity that it nearly knocked him off the bed. Sam was the one who deepened the kiss, bringing his hand to grasp at Dean’s hair like a drowning man seeking purchase.

Dean rolled with it, letting the other man take the reins of control and guide them to whatever he wanted. When he felt Sam’s large hand slip under his shirt to heat his skin, he arched into the touch. And when he felt Sam’s tongue enter his mouth in mad, frenzied exploration, he opened wider.

And he did so because he wanted to. Because for the first time in the long months that he had been doing this, Dean wanted what he was participating in.

How long they stayed like that, turning a kiss into an art form, Dean would never be able to say. Eventually, the kiss dissolved and they broke apart, each one pulling away from the other at the same time. Dean tilted his head and nuzzled Sam’s throat, tasting it with his tongue, enjoying the softness of the skin before placing a kiss there. Another kiss followed that one, then another, and another, each one lasting longer than the one before it. He lifted his head up a fraction, about to bestow yet another kiss, when he purred, “Oh, Sammy.”

The words should have had Sam melting underneath him, should have pushed them both into some deeper level of this strange game.

Instead, they turned Sam into stone - cold, unyielding, hard.

Dean felt it instantly. Brows knitted, he lifted his head and looked up. “Sam?”

“Oh God,” Sam cried.

The look on his face went beyond mortification and for a moment, Dean was at a loss for what to say or do. He simply couldn’t comprehend how things had changed in what amounted to a wink of an eye.

“What’s wrong?” he managed to ask.

But Sam was already crawling out from under him, hands pushing hard at his chest.

“I can’t do this,” Sam said as scrambled off of the bed and grabbed his shirt.

“We don’t have to . . . we can do whatever you want, Sam.”

But Sam was already stuffing his arms into the shirt and making his way toward the door. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” he said, voice cracking under the weight of the anguish it held. “But I have to go.”

“Sam? Did I do something wrong?”

Sam, who had been fumbling at the door, turned around to face him. Even in the candlelight Dean could see the beginning of tears in his eyes.

“It’s not you. It’s me,” he said. He gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s me.”

And then he was gone. In a flurry of half-buttoned shirt and long limbs, he was gone.

Dean stared at the door long after Sam had left. He had been witness to and participated in a lot of things in this room. But nothing like this had ever happened.

And just when he’d been thinking that he would be able to glean some kind of pleasure from this hell hole.

His gaze drifted to the camera and he gave a small shrug.

Then he flopped backward on the bed and waited for the shit to hit the fan.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam had never moved so fast in his entire life. He ran out of the Palace as if it were on fire, turning everything around him into a moving blur, and he did not stop until he was on the highway, pushing his car far beyond the allowable speed limit.

He could not believe that he had let things get that far. He had betrayed Jess. He had betrayed his memory and everything they had shared together. And with a prostitute no less.

God, talk about fucking things up. Almost literally. If Dean hadn’t called him by that name, that very hated nickname . . .

Sammy.

He had always hated it. He tolerated it from his family and close friends, but even they used it only sparingly.

The only person who had ever used it almost exclusively was the one person that could make it sound like a song from heaven.

And that had been Jess.

To hear it from this other man, no matter how beautiful he was or how kind he had seemed, had been like having a dagger twisted into his heart.

The growl that tore from his throat as he slammed his fist into the steering wheel was one of deep, unquenchable torment. The pain in his hand, sharp and instant, felt good. No, not good . . . it hurt like hell. But it felt right. Because he knew that it deserved it.

Unfortunately it did nothing to forestall the tears that were aching to be released. He pulled the car over to the shoulder and punched on the button for the hazard lights. Then he gave in and, dropping his head into his hands, let the tears come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean waited a full three hours before anyone came to get him.

Finding himself bored, he slipped in and out of a doze, never letting himself go too far under. He wanted to be fully alert and ready when they came for him.

So when he finally heard the sound of the door opening, he drew himself up straight, a practiced smirk already playing on his features.

“Well it’s about damn time, Eagon,” he said to the man who had entered the room. “I was starting to think you guys had forgotten about me.”

The corners of Eagon’s mouth twitched upward. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was as close as Eagon ever came to one. “Fagan requests your company. He would like a word.”

“Hmm. Well, why don’t you tell Fagan that I’m not really up to chatting with him tonight? Maybe I can pencil him in tomorrow.”

The attempt at a smile disappeared from Eagon’s face. “Get your ass up now, Winchester.”

Dean weighed the benefit of making another snide comment versus keeping his mouth shut. The look on his Eagon’s face told him snide was not the way to go. But still . . .

He stood up and flashed a beatific smile. “See. All you had to do was ask nicely,” he said before walking past the hulking man into the hallway.

Fagan’s office and living quarters were only one floor above Dean’s, making the journey to them a short one. Having been called here as many times as he had, Dean knew the way quite well, but he still allowed his escort to take the lead.

As they entered Fagan’s main living suite, Dean made a beeline for the huge, oaken desk at its center. He knew what was expected of him. There was no use trying to stall the inevitable. Without waiting to be asked to sit down, he grabbed the empty chair in front of the desk and planted himself on it. Then he looked steadily at the man on the other side of the desk.

Fagan, a short, corpulent man, returned the stare with his cold, beady eyes. For a bizarre moment, Dean felt as if he were engaged in an old-fashioned staring contest like they used to have back in grade school. He was fairly confident that he could outlast the man, but he was tired, and he wanted to get this over with and get back to his room, so he lounged against the chair and casually said, “Lurch here says you wanted to see me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Eagon take a step toward him, a low growl in the back of his throat. But Fagan stopped him with a wave of one fat, little hand. “Easy now, Eagon.”

Dean glanced over. “Yeah, easy Eagon.”

Fagan cleared his throat, drawing Dean’s attention to him.

“Would you care to tell me what happened tonight?” Fagan asked.

“Could you be a little more specific? It was a long night.”

“Tell me why that young man ran out of your room like the devil himself was chasing him. Tell me why he left unsatisfied.”

“Maybe you should ask him.”

“I’m asking you.” The dark undercurrent in Fagan’s tone signaled that his patience was already wearing thin.

Dean knew enough to be serious. “Look, Fagan,” he said as he leaned forward, “the guy was skittish from the minute he walked in the room. He obviously didn’t want to be there.”

“I see . . . ”

“But I did what I could to keep him interested, to keep him there.”

Fagan leaned forward as well. “Did you? Dean, we’ve been over this before. A place like this survives on one thing and one thing only - and that is its reputation. We have to make certain that every single customer leaves completely satisfied.”

Dean felt the first spark of anger. “He didn’t want to be there!”

“Then you should have made him want to be there.”

“What was I supposed to do, Fagan? Hold him down and impale myself on his dick?” He all but shouted the words, not even aware that he had stood up until he felt Eagon’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down in his chair.

Fagan, as usual, was nonplused. “Language, Dean. And watch the attitude.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Fagan. That I failed? That I’m sorry?”

“Both of those sentences would be a good start.”

“Fine. I failed. I’m sorry. Can I go now?”

“And said with such sincerity. But I’m afraid,” Fagan said, voice growing grave, “that you will have to be punished for this.”

A long silence followed the statement. A silence in which Fagan looked at him in his most somber manner while Eagon looked on with barely disguised glee

Dean knew they were waiting for a reaction. They were waiting for him to get upset, maybe beg for lenience. As if he’d ever give them the satisfaction.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I supposed to be surprised?” he finally asked.

Fagan’s face screwed up as if he’d bitten into something rotten, but he recovered quickly. “Attitude, Dean,” he said calmly. “We’ll begin with fifteen lashes with a flogger - we don’t want to keep you out of commission for too long. And . . . two full days . . . and nights . . . spent in the basement.”

Dean’s eyes widened despite his earlier resolve to show these bastards nothing. The basement was this place’s equivalent to being thrown in solitary. One wall of the basement had been cut into 5 x 5 stone partitions - perfect little cells. They were cold, cramped and damp and he would be getting very intimate with the unnameable things that scuttled in the dark. He’d been subjected to it once before and had definitely come out of it the worse for wear.

The punishment far outweighed the crime and he was so tempted to ask why he’d been sentenced to it that his mouth actually started to hurt from clamping it closed. He had to remind himself that questioning wouldn’t do any good anyway. It would simply show them that they’d won this round. Not trusting himself to speak, he managed a stiff nod to indicate that he’d heard and understood.

Fagan leaned back in his chair, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“Of course, Dean, I would be willing to forgo your punishment . . . if you do something for me.”

Relaxing his jaw enough to speak, Dean asked, “What is that?”

“You can get on your knees, right now, and service me.”

The incredulous laugh erupted from him before he could control it. “Let me get this straight . . . I either take the lashes and two days in the basement or I give you a blowjob?”

Fagan frowned at the last word but nodded.

Dean folded his hands together and paused to make it seem as if he were actually thinking about it. Then he looked Fagan straight in the eye and said, “I’ll take the punishment.”

“You son of a . . .” Fagan’s ring-laden hand struck out, catching Dean on his mouth. His head flew to the side, more from the surprise of it than anything else. Once again he’d gone too far. He smiled past the pain as he lifted his hand to touch the bleeding cut on his lower lip.

He turned his head to find that Fagan was smoothing down his clothes and his hair, taking deep, audible breaths to calm himself down.

“I like you, Dean,” Fagan finally said. “I do. I even, most of the time, manage to enjoy that little attitude of yours.” He leaned forward, hands once again clasped on the desk. “It keeps things lively. But every once in a while, you push things too far. One of these days you’re going to make me so angry that I’ll be forced to break our contract early. And then where will you be? Where will your father be?”

Dean tensed at the mention of his father but said nothing. Fagan’s questions didn’t require spoken answers.

“Do you understand me, Dean?”

A thousand tempting retorts passed through Dean’s mind, most of them containing at least three really good swear words. But he finally settled for the answer that he knew he had to give.   
“Yes, sir. I understand. I’m sorry.”

That was the most the bastard was getting out of him and Dean knew that Fagan damn well knew it. And sure enough, Fagan nodded happily. “Good. Now Eagon, why don’t you get me the flogger?”

Eagon scampered off to follow his order, looking happier than he’d looked . . . well since the last time they’d done this.

Fagan turned back to Dean.

In a voice dripping with boredom, he said, “Dean, take off your shirt and brace yourself against the desk, would you?”

He paused, waiting until Dean had obeyed.

“That’s a good boy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walk back to his room was an exercise in torture for Dean. And although this certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been subjected to a lashing, nor would it be the last, he didn’t think he’d ever get used to moving when his back felt like it was on fire.

More than once he had to fight the urge to just fall down to the floor, crawl into a corner and moan until his voice gave out.

“You could lean on me, you know,” Eagon said from beside him. “I’d take real good care of you.”   
The words were accompanied with a familiar leer.

“I’ll pass.”

“Come on, now. Why do you always have to be that way? I could make things a lot easier for you around here. If you’d just be a little friendlier.”

Dean pushed Eagon’s hand off of his shoulder with a shiver of disgust. “Eagon, what part of ‘I’d rather be Fagan’s personal pool boy than have you touch me’ do you not understand?” he asked.

“You little shit. You want I shut that smart mouth of yours?”

Dean didn’t even bother reacting to the threat. It was an empty one and they both knew it. Eagon could not touch Dean unless specifically ordered to by Fagan.

As they came to the room, Dean pulled the key out of his pocket and opened up the door. “Don’t you have an elsewhere to be, Lurch? You know, torturing small animals, setting fires, that sort of thing?”

He stepped in and placed his hand on the door, about to slam it shut when Eagon’s giant foot kicked out and stopped it. The big man stepped inside.

“What are you doing?”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you, you little smart ass?”

“Eagon, remember . . . you can’t touch me. Big brother’s watching.” Dean pointed to the camera to emphasize his point.

But Eagon didn’t back off. Instead he moved closer, maneuvering them both until Dean found himself with his back pressed against the wall and the other man towering over him. “You think you’re safe? You think you can make fun of me, insult me, and you’re safe? You’re not. I don’t need this job that badly. I could quit tomorrow. I have a little money saved up. Enough to rent you every night for a week.”

The other man’s voice was nothing more than a malevolent hiss and Dean literally felt the blood drain away from his face, felt an involuntary shiver race up his spine.

“Those toys,” Eagon said, his gray eyes flickering to the wall, then back to Dean’s face. “I’d use every single one of them on you, over and over. By the time I was done, nobody would want you. Nobody would call you pretty anymore. You’d be nothing but a used-up whore. Trash.”

Dean swallowed hard, feeling the sting of the words and the cold, inherent truth in them.

“So, is there anything else you want to say to me?” Eagon asked, closing in just a little more, just enough so that all the air seemed to be sucked out of the room and breathing became impossible.

Dean stared at the other man, seeing him for the first time, seeing the madman beneath the skin. He knew that this threat was not an empty one. Eagon would do it. One misstep on his part and Eagon would do it.

His mind searched frantically for a flippant comment, something to show Eagon that he was not afraid of him. Something to show the other man that he had not won. But his mind was not cooperating.

He was afraid. So in the end, all he could do was shake his head and turn away from the madness and the simmering rage.

Eagon took a full step back, obviously enjoying his moment of triumph. “I didn’t think so,” he said simply. He walked back to the door and opened it. “Sleep well tonight, Winchester. Tomorrow you’ll be in the basement.”

Then he walked through the door and was gone.

As soon as he was alone, Dean dropped to the floor. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, turning into himself, unconsciously trying to make himself small.   
This was all that guy’s fault - that Sam. None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for him and his mystery issues.

But as soon as the thought appeared in his mind, he dismissed it, knowing that it wasn’t true. Sam had nothing to do with this. If it hadn’t been Sam, it would have been something else, some other excuse to make him pay for not bending completely.

Dean shut his eyes, trying desperately not to let the heat behind his lids turn into tears. He wouldn’t cry. He had sworn that on his first day here. He would not cry. If he broke, he’d do it on the inside where the bastards who ran this place could never see it.

He stayed like that for a long time, fighting the weakness within himself.

Only when he was certain that he had won, did he uncurl himself, stand up and move on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, Sam dreamed. He knew this dream. It was as familiar to him as the curves of Jess’ face.

How many times had he walked the length of this blood-spattered room? He had honestly lost count. Twice before Jess had been killed and an eternity of times since.

He didn’t even bother trying to wake up - it never worked anyway. This dream would not end until it had reached its inevitable conclusion.

He walked toward the center of the room, hating every step he was forced to take, dreading the place where he would end up.

He reached his destination, stopped and looked down. There, lying at his feet, was a body, its hands tied behind its back and covered in so much blood that it made identity almost impossible. Sam knew that he had to kneel and turn the body over or that the dream would never end. But to do so meant that he would once again have to gaze into Jess’ vacant eyes, once again see and feel his lover’s blood covering his hands.

He didn’t want to. He fought against it. Bad enough that he had had to suffer through this in reality, but to live it over and over in dreams . . .

But the fight was lost before it had even really begun. He was a puppet in this dream. His role in it had to be fulfilled.

Traitorously, his body kneeled down and grasped Jess’ shoulders, turning him over gently. He prepared himself as best he could, knowing it would all be over soon, at least for tonight. He set Jess’ body down with care and looked at his upturned face.

Except that . . .

It was not Jess.

He froze, mind trying desperately to comprehend what his eyes were showing him.

Not Jess.

Not Jess.

Not Jess at all, but Dean. Dean of the old albums and model cars and the wicked smile.

Dean, with vacant eyes and blood tainting his hair.

Sam began to crawl away, his mind still struggling to keep up with what was happening.

He had to wake up now.

He had to wake up.

NOW.

And with that final thought . . . Sam woke up, the scream already tearing loose from his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam knew he looked like shit from the way Warren’s eyes widened when he saw him.

He stepped away from the door and waved him in, making his way to the couch with the gait of a much older man.

“Sorry to barge in, but you didn’t answer your phone or your cell,” Warren said as he plopped down on the chair across from him. “I got worried.”

In a voice made rough from exhaustion, Sam muttered, “I’m fine.”

“So why do you look like you haven’t slept a wink?” Warren asked. The concern in his eyes morphed into a kind of manic glee as he jumped to the wrong conclusion.“Holy shit! You slept with him, didn’t you? That’s why you were up all night!”

Sam shot him a look. “I didn’t sleep with him.”

Confused, Warren stuttered, “So . . . what, you didn’t go?”

A brief vision of himself running out of the chateau flashed through Sam’s mind and he winced at the insanity of it. He considered explaining all that had taken place last night, but even just thinking about putting it into words became a monumental task. He finally shrugged and said, “I did, but . . . it just didn’t work out.”

Warren, however, pressed on. “You didn’t like him?”

Sam leaned back with a sigh. He loved his friend, but at times he could be like a dog with a bone. He knew that he’d have to give some information or the questions would never stop. “No, that’s the problem,” he said. “I did like him. Maybe a little too much. He wasn’t what I was expecting, and I wasn’t ready for it, so I left. Period, end of story.”

“Well, if that’s all that happened, why do you look like hell?”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

The concern was back in Warren’s eyes, and for a moment it was almost too much. It was suffocating instead of soothing, unwelcome where it should have been comforting. Sam was tempted to simply turn away from it, excuse himself and disappear from the room. But he forced himself to stay and face it.

Because now that Warren was here, there was something he wanted to know.

Ignoring his friend’s question, he asked, “What exactly do you know about that place, War?”

If Warren was surprised at the direction that the conversation had just veered, he didn’t show it. He merely shrugged and said, “Not much. Just what you know. Actually, you know more than I do now.”

“Well, how’d you and Brad even find out about it?”

“Oh, that,” Warren said, looking down. Sam tried to catch his eyes, surprised to see that his friend looked embarrassed. “I...um . . . I overheard my dad talking about it.”

“Your dad?” he cried out, honestly shocked. “I didn’t know your dad was . . . ”

“Hey, hold on! I didn’t say he went to the place. Just that he and one of his friends were talking about it.”

Sam let that subject drop, albeit it with more than a little reluctance, and moved on. “Ok, so you heard about this place and then what?”

“Then I told Brad about it and we talked and decided that it might be a good place for you to go.”

“And?”

“And, we went, looked around, and decided on that guy.”

Seized by a curiosity so violent that it almost hurt, Sam leaned forward, “What made you decide on him?”

Once again, his friend seemed mildly embarrassed, enough that a slight blush was detectable on his cheeks. “Well . . . he was the . . . the prettiest, I guess. And when we talked to him, we got a good vibe from him. Like he’d be good to you.”

Sam leaned back against the couch and began the process of digesting the precious little information he’d been given.

“Not that I mind, but what’s with all the questions?” Warren asked after a minute of silence. “What exactly happened last night?”

And here it was - the moment of truth. Sam had always been a candid person, always shared his life openly and willingly. Until the moment that had changed everything. Until Jess’ murder. After that, anything having to do with Jess’ death became his and his alone. His burden, his albatross.

And now here he was, about to open a door he had thought he’d never open. And all because he’d come to the conclusion late last night, as the nightmare finally began to loosen its claws from him, that he didn’t want to do this alone anymore.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke quickly, making sure the words got out before he changed his mind. “Listen, there’s something I want to tell you, but you have to keep an open mind.”

“Dude, look who you’re talking to,” Warren said.

“Ok,” Sam said, more to himself than his friend. “Ok. It’s just that I’ve never told this to anyone.”

“What is it, man?”

And now came the hard part. The opening of the door too long kept shut. “Before Jess died, I had a dream about him dying. The same dream twice, actually.” He stopped, then spoke quickly to clarify. “Not him dying really, but my finding him afterward.”

“Like how it really happened?”

“Pretty much, yeah. And I’ve been having the dream ever since. At first it was almost every night, but lately it’s been maybe once or twice a month.”

“Jeez, man, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”

Sam plowed forward, choosing to ignore his friend’s concern. “See, the thing is - last night, I had the dream again. It’s always been the same, War. Always. I’m in this white room and the walls are covered in blood, and there’s someone lying in the middle of the room with their hands tied behind their back. I kneel down next to them and turn them over, and . . . it’s always been Jess. Just like it really happened.”

Warren just sat there, eyes wide as he listened intently.

“But in last night’s dream, I turned the person over, thinking it was Jess. Ready for it to be Jess. And it was Dean.”

“Dean?”

“The guy from last night.”

“The prostitute?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” Warren whispered after a minute. “That’s . . . that’s fairly freaksome.”

“Do you see what I’m saying though? I dreamed about Jess being killed, and it came true. After some time passed, I kind of stopped thinking about it, but now . . . now that I’ve had the dream again . . . ” He let his words drift off to nothing, knowing that Warren would understand what he was trying to say.

“Are you telling me you think these dreams are prophetic?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know man. Weird yes, but you seeing the future? That’s a pretty big leap from point A to point B.”

“But not unheard of,” Sam countered.

“So what do you think’s gonna happen? You think the serial killer’s gonna come after Dean like he did Jess? Is that it?”

“Maybe. The guy killed two people before he murdered Jess and one after. And then he stopped. Remember what the police said?”

“That serial killers don’t usually stop.” Warren recited the words as if he had memorized them. “That he either died, moved, or got arrested for something else.”

Sam leaned forward excitedly and connected the pieces. “Don’t you see how it fits? Let’s say the guy was arrested for something else, something petty. He’s been in jail this entire year, but now he’s out. And he starts killing again.”

“With Dean his next victim?”

“Yeah. I mean, what else could it mean?”

“Sam, it could mean a hundred different things. It was a dream. A horrible dream, I know, but just a dream.”

“What happened to the open mind?”

“It’s here but . . . ” Warren stopped himself and sighed. “Ok, let’s assume your theory is right. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m gonna warn him,” Sam said with an air of confident conviction.

“And he’s gonna think you’re a nut.”

“I’ll have to somehow convince him that I’m not. I’ll make him listen.”

That earned him a smile from his friend. “So you’re going there again?”

“I’m going tonight.”

“Wow. Ok. Umm,” Warren said, quickly trying to process what was being said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No,” Sam said, standing up and stretching. “I can go myself. I just wanted to run it by you. See what you thought.”

“I’m glad you did, man. I am.”

Sam looked at Warren, suddenly timid, suddenly afraid. In a small, hesitant voice he asked, “So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

Warren looked at him, cocked an eyebrow and said, “Oh yeah, I think you’ve gone totally batshit.”

For a moment, Sam could only stare at Warren in surprise, but then the laughter kicked in and he almost dropped to the floor from the strength of it. He felt a huge weight slide off his chest, one he hadn’t even been aware was there.

After they had both managed to contain the laughter to just the occasional giggle, Warren stood up as well. “I’d better let you get some sleep,” he said as made for the door. “You’ll need it for tonight.”

When he got to it, he turned around, one hand on the doorknob, a mischievous grin on his face.

“He was hot though, right? We did good?”

Sam, remembering large hazel eyes and strong hands, smiled. “He was hot. You did good.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam walked through the Palace and once again took in its understated elegance. It seemed unreal that only 24 hours ago he had run out of this building, thinking he’d never step foot in it again. And yet here he was, being escorted into the lounge area by another one of the Palace’s pages.

He felt the irony of it like a sledgehammer to the gut.

Because he’d arrived early, the lounge was relatively empty. “Here we are, sir,” the page announced as they entered the room. “Enjoy.”

But Sam barely heard the words. He was already too busy searching for Dean.

As he looked around, he took notice of the small key charms dangling off the wrists of some of the men. The man at the front desk had told him all the companions wore one - apparently it was the only way to tell who was for rent and who wasn’t.

He walked through the room, smiling politely at the other companions and their come-hither glances, but resolutely turning away from them.

There was only one person he was here to see.

But after five minutes of searching and craning and peering, Sam knew that Dean was not anywhere in the room.

Disappointment and worry warred within him for dominance as he all but ran over to the bartender in the corner. “Excuse me,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“That’s why we’re here, sir.”

“No. I...someone specific. His name’s Dean? I don’t see him anywhere.”

The man shook his head. “Dean’s not available tonight.”

Sam felt an unexpected pang of jealousy run through him. It caught him off-guard, since he’d never had much need for the emotion. “He’s with someone already?” he asked as casually as he could.

“No, he’s not available for anyone tonight.”

Panic began to build, making his voice waver. “Why not? Is something wrong?”

“I can assure you that nothing’s wrong, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss it further.”

He had no choice but to believe the man, but still the panic receded only a little. “Ok, so . . . I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, more to himself than the bartender.

But the other man answered anyway. “I’m sorry. Not tomorrow either. Dean won’t be available until the following night. But there are plenty of other men that you would probably find just as satisfying.”

“No,” Sam said, already backing away. “No, thank you.”

This time, his exit from the chateau was calm, normal. Nothing like the wild flight of the night before.

And yet, as he got into his car and prepared for the long drive home, his hands shook as he placed them on the steering wheel.

He told himself there was no help for it. He’d have to wait the two days and hope for the best.

Then he started the car and prayed that he would not dream.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam never knew that it was possible for the passing of two days to feel like a lifetime. As the time crawled, he became more and more convinced that something had already happened to Dean and that he’d be hearing about his murder on a news bulletin. Any kind of human interaction became impossible - he was simply too wound up to function properly - so he ended up holing up in his apartment like some fugitive, constantly staring at the clock while bloody, worst-case scenarios drifted through his head.

Eventually, the imposed time limit ended, and he found himself back at the Palace, going through the now-familiar routine and being greeted by the gentleman at the front desk as if he were an old friend.

Once inside the lounge, it didn’t take long to find Dean amid the dozen or so people there. His knees nearly buckled from the relief at finding that Dean was indeed alive and apparently well, but that feeling was undercut by another flare of jealousy at seeing him already talking with someone else.

He shook it off and walked up to him, tapping him gently on his right shoulder to get his attention. Dean turned around, the expectant look on his face instantly changing to one of undisguised astonishment - complete with wide-open eyes and mouth. In any other situation, Sam would have found it funny as hell.

Dean blinked several times, as if trying to determine if what he was seeing was real or mirage. “Sam?” he asked in bewilderment.

“Hey.”

“Wow,” Dean said with a small laugh, recovering quickly. “You are the last person I ever thought I’d see in here again.”

“Yeah, about that, I . . . ”

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted. Sam turned and saw that the man whom Dean had been talking to was frowning at them. “I was here first.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry sir, but I really have to talk to him,” Sam said.

“Then wait your turn. You can have him in . . . ” the man made a show of looking at his watch, then looked back up, “two hours. If you don’t mind sloppy seconds.”

Sam glanced over at Dean, who was blushing and looking down at the floor, as if waiting for the proverbial hole to open up and swallow him.

Sam stepped a little closer to the man and looked down at him. At 6' 4" there were few people who were taller than he was, and he wasn’t above using his height to his advantage when the situation called for it. “I think you need to watch your mouth.”

The man however, stood his ground, even leaning in a little. “What did you say to me, you little punk?”

“Did I stutter?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Dean said, his voice smooth and placating as he stepped between them and placed a hand on each of their chests.

Before he could continue, a man, presumably a bouncer, was at their side. “Is there a problem?”

Dean turned to him. “As a matter of fact, yes, there is. Sam and I were talking, had already decided on the amount of time we were going to spend together, when this guy comes barging in and interrupts us. Very rudely I might add.” He looked up at Sam, cocked his head sideways, and a gave a barely-there wink. “Isn’t that right, Sam?”

The wink almost did him in, but somehow Sam managed to reply with only a small amount of stuttering. “Yes. That’s exactly right. Very rude.”

“That’s not the way it happened, you lying . . . ”

The bouncer put a meaty hand on the man’s shoulder, effectively cutting off his tirade. “I think you need to calm down, sir.”

“But . . . ”

“If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to escort you out. There are plenty of other available companions. I’m sure you can find someone else that strikes your fancy.”

The man looked angry enough to pop a blood vessel, but after a few seconds of shooting daggers of hatred at each of them, he pushed the bouncer’s hand off of his shoulder and stalked away.

“I do apologize, sir,” the bouncer said to Sam. “I’ll leave you and your companion to finish your negotiations.”

Sam turned back to Dean to find the man was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “So, where were we?” Dean asked.

The question brought back to mind the reason he was here. He felt his own smirk tumble from his face as he said, “I have to talk to you.”

“So talk,” Dean said as he put his hands into his pockets. Sam noted that the words weren’t spoken in anger. They were just . . . there.

He opened his mouth to do just that when he realized that he couldn’t do this here. He needed more than five minutes of Dean’s time - explaining the nightmares alone would take that long. He looked around, catching the eye of the bouncer. “Maybe . . . maybe we should do this upstairs. In your room. I mean, since we already told that guy . . . ”

Dean stared up into his face, giving him an appraising look before letting it turn long and smouldering. “It’s that serious, huh?”

Sam, feeling the heat of Dean’s gaze like a physical thing, couldn’t seem to put the words together to answer.

Dean took a few steps back just as Sam was about to attempt speech. “Well, you know what to do,” he said, already turning away. “Let the man at the desk know you want me. I’ll meet you upstairs. I think you know the way.”


	5. Chapter 5

“One hour.”

“Just an hour?” Dean repeated.

“That’s what he requested. He’ll be up shortly.”

Dean thanked the man on the other end of the line and placed the phone back on its cradle.

Then he sat down on the edge of the large bed and ran slightly shaking fingers through his hair, the only outward sign that he was apprehensive about what was going to take place.

He’d thought about Sam a lot over the past two days and nights. Lying in the basement with the age-old fear of the dark gnawing at his mind, it was a godsend to have something else to focus on. So he’d thought about Sam, wondering over and over about the man and about why he had run.

But all of it had merely been a way to keep the bad things at bay. He hadn’t once entertained the idea that he’d get real answers to his silent questions, or to the mystery that was Sam.

And yet here he was, finding out that the simplest, most obvious reason for his running had been the correct one after all. That it all came down to the man being shy. And possibly a virgin at that.

His friends had arranged for him to get some hassle-free, easy sex and he, Dean, had handled things badly. So badly that Sam had panicked and run.

This time, he told himself, he would have to play things differently and be much more careful. Just because Sam had somehow screwed up his courage and come back didn’t mean that he was any more comfortable with things. He would have to be better about reading Sam’s cues.

He would have to be seductive without being too aggressive.

And he had to remember not to call the man ‘Sammy’.

He stood up and walked into the middle of the room, recently honed instinct telling him it was almost time. Taking one last look around to make sure everything was perfect, he was surprised to find that his heart was making an all out effort to pound out of his chest. He inhaled deeply and told himself to be calm. Dealing with Sam might be tricky, but it was infinitely more preferable than letting that idiot from earlier take his superiority complex out on him for a couple of hours.

The near-silent turning of the doorknob interrupted his thoughts, telling him it was show time.

He had time for one more intake of breath before the door opened and Sam walked in.

It was almost hard to for Dean to reconcile that this was the same man that he had just seen downstairs. There in the lounge, Sam had been a force to be reckoned with, and for a moment Dean had been afraid that he would pound the idiot’s face into hamburger right then and there. But now he walked in slowly, looking timid and more like a lost little boy than anything else.

Dean sidled up to him, being careful not to get too close. Not yet.

“Welcome back,” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Oh yeah, the guy was definitely not comfortable.

But he was here. And Dean was pretty sure he could work with that.

“Come on in,” he said as he walked backward toward the bed, careful never to break eye contact with the other man. He was pleased to see that Sam followed without hesitation.

He reached the bed and sat down on its edge, leaving enough room for Sam so he wouldn’t feel crowded.

He gave an inward sigh when Sam sat as far from him as possible. One step forward . . . two step back.

But at least he hadn’t run yet. “So . . . ” he began.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about the other night, about running out of here like an idiot,” Sam said, cutting off whatever nonsense had been about to come out of his mouth.

One step forward.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean answered, scooting a little closer to him. “What’s important is that you’re here now. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dean frowned. That hadn’t seemed very positive.

He tried again. “You were really good down there,” he said, once again inching just that much closer to Sam. “Defending my honor and all that. That was impressive.”

That earned him a genuine smile. And right then and there he decided that he would definitely have to make Sam smile more often. The dimples alone were worth it.

“Well, you were weren’t so bad yourself,” Sam said.

“Me?” he asked, surprised. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, you did. The way you handled the situation . . . you’re very smooth.”

Dean placed a hand atop Sam’s thigh, giving it a small squeeze. “What can I say? I’d choose you over him a hundred times over.”

And with that, he closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss. A really nice, long one. His specialty.

But much like the other night, he felt hands at his chest pushing him away. More gently this time, but still away.

“Oh no, Dean. I’m not . . . I’m not here for that. I’m sorry,” Sam sputtered as he leaned back.

Dean, reeling from the unwelcome deja vu, blinked and said, “Huh?”

“I just came here to talk to you.”

Two steps back? More like fifty.

The static of confusion buzzing in his head barely allowed Dean to think. “You came all the way here . . . just to talk?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m sorry if I led you to believe it was something else.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to lean back. And try to reassess. He’d heard about this kind of thing - lonely people that just needed someone, anyone, to listen to them. People so desperate for human contact that they paid for the illusion of having someone that cared.

He’d heard about it, but had never encountered it himself - until now.

Well, this he could handle, he decided. He could talk. Or listen. Or whatever Sam needed.

“Ok, Sam,” he said. “I’m all ears.”

But instead of speaking, Sam began to gaze around, a mild look of disgust evident on his face. “Do you think we could do this somewhere else?” he asked as he focused on the wall of ‘toys’.

Dean looked around as well. “Like where?” he asked, honestly confused. “In the bathroom?”

“In your room, maybe? Your real room?”

Almost of their own volition, Dean’s eyes slid toward the camera for a brief moment before coming back to rest on Sam’s face. Would Fagan be pissed? He hadn’t mentioned it last time. And wasn’t the client’s satisfaction always the most important thing? That little chestnut had been drilled into him often enough. And this was what Sam wanted.

He stood up, decision made. “Sure, Sam. Whatever you want.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam began to relax as soon as he crossed the threshold into Dean’s living area - into what he’d already come to think of as the inner sanctum. He sat down where Dean indicated and watched as the other man slowly lowered himself into the sofa opposite him.

Now that they were no longer embraced by the half-shadows of the other room, it was easy to see that there was something wrong with Dean. The dark circles under his eyes told him as much. So did the slow, measured way he moved, as if every gesture hurt. “Are you ok?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You look really tired.”

Dean shrugged. “Didn’t get much sleep the past couple of nights,” he said.

“You’re moving like you’re sore.”

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“What did you want to tell me?”

Sam dropped the subject despite the itch to pursue it further. It was very obvious that something was wrong with Dean; that something had happened in the two days that Dean was “unavailable.” But it was also obvious that he was making Dean uncomfortable with his questions.

So he took a deep breath and prepared himself for yet another plunge into unknown waters; for the reason he had come here. “Dean, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it.”

“Ok,” Dean answered with a curious smile, and once again Sam was struck by just how beautiful this man was.

He forced himself to focus, because it was just too easy to get lost in the details of that beauty - in the small crinkles around the eyes or that sprinkling of freckles across the nose. Looking deep into his eyes, and with as much conviction as he could muster, he said, “I think you’re in danger.”

Dean froze, the smile disappearing by degrees until a look of wariness replaced it.

Oh God, now he’d done it. Of all the ways he’d imagined things would go - frightening Dean hadn’t been one of them. Sam leaned forward, rushing words out of his mouth in his hurry to convince Dean that he didn’t mean him any harm. “No, not me. You’re not in danger from me.”

“No?”

Intuition told him that he only had one chance to make Dean believe he was safe with him. Pouring all his sincerity into the words, he said, “God, no Dean. I would never hurt you. Never.”

Sam watched as Dean watched him and realized that the other man was analyzing him; truly analyzing him. After a few tense seconds, Dean’s body visibly relaxed and a faint echo of a smile returned. “No, you know what Sam? I don’t think you would.”

He had passed the test. He sighed, grateful. “Thanks.”

“Ok, so . . . you’re here. Tell me more.”

And Sam did. He began with the nightmares that had plagued his sleep for far too long. He told him about Jess and finding his body in their apartment. And then he told him about the latest nightmare, the one that had sent him running back to this place, desperate to find Dean before he too wound up a victim.

He told the other man everything; everything except what he and Jess had really meant to each other, choosing instead to let Dean believe they were just good friends. For reasons even he didn’t quite understand, he kept that detail to himself.

Dean listened to it all in silence, his expression melding from one of sympathy to surprise to horror and then to confusion as Sam told his tale.

When there was nothing left to say, Sam leaned back against the chair, feeling exhausted and drained, as if he’d just cut out a vital portion of his soul and served it up on a platter.

But at least he’d done what he had come here to do. The ball was in Dean’s court now.

He waited for Dean’s reaction.

And waited.

And waited.

And just when he was beginning to think that the other man had gone mute, Dean spoke at last. In a low voice, he said, “Sam, I am so sorry. I am so sorry that you had to go through that.”

Sam felt his throat tighten at the heartfelt sentiment. Not trusting his voice, he acknowledged it with a simple nod.

“But I don’t understand,” Dean said. “You think I’m in danger? Because of your dream?”

“Yeah, I do Dean. That’s why I came here. To warn you. To warn you that you have to be careful.”

“Sam, no offense, but I don’t really believe in that stuff. I’m more the ‘if you can touch it and see it, then it’s real’ type of guy.”

“Believe me, before this happened to me, I was the same way. But just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“Yeah, but just because you do, doesn’t mean that it does. Look at Santa Claus.”

“Dean . . . ”

“Sam . . . ”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he asked, unconsciously repeating the question he’d put to Warren only two days ago.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“No,” Dean answered with a lazy grin. “What I think is that you’re a really nice guy with a slightly crazy idea.”

Sam chuckled. “Oh, that makes it so much better.”

“Look, Sam,” Dean said, turning serious. “I appreciate your concern. Really. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m probably safer here than I am anywhere else.”

“Safer here?”

“Dude, this place is like a fortress.”

“Dean . . . you’re alone in here with strange guys all night. Any one of them can hurt you.”

“Yeah, but there’s security measures here . . . in the rooms. There’s panic buttons and . . . ”

“And what?” Sam asked after it became clear that Dean wasn’t going to continue.

“Nothing. Just . . . other things,” Dean said vaguely.

“What, you mean the camera?”

Dean froze, eyes almost bugging out of his head as he stared at Sam. “You . . . uh . . . how . . . ”

“I saw it when you glanced at it earlier.”

Dean closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh shit.”

“Let me guess,” Sam said, mildly amused. “I’m not supposed to know it’s there.”

“Oh shit.”

“Hey don’t worry, man. I’m not going to say anything.”

Dean looked up, expression hopeful. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Cause no one’s supposed to know. They would pull my intestines out through my nose and serve them for lunch if they knew that you knew.”

“Ok, that’s a visual I could have done without.”

Dean pointed at him. “Hey, it’s true. And it wouldn’t be pretty.”

Sam held up his hands in mock surrender. “I promise, man. Not a word from me.”

“Thanks.”

“So what, they film people with that thing?”

“I don’t think so. At least they tell us they don’t. It’s just supposed to be there for security.”

Sam frowned, looking thoughtful as he stared at the ground. “I guess it is better than nothing.”

“Would it make you feel better if I promise to be extra careful? Even though I still don’t believe in this stuff, mind you.”

Sam looked up. “Yeah. Yeah it would.” Then a thought struck him. A way to ensure that Dean was safe. “You know what would make me feel better, though?”

“What?”

“If I could call you,” he said. His words instantly echoed back to him and he realized just how much he sounded like a horny 16-year-old trying to get a date. Mortified, he added hastily, “Just to make sure that you’re ok.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. That’d be ok. They’d take a message and I could call you back.”

“Or maybe,” he said, a better idea already forming. “Maybe I could just come back. Just to make sure that you’re ok.”

“Sure. I’d like that,” Dean said. “I mean . . . that’d be cool.”

Sam had to fight the urge to slide onto the floor in a huge puddle of relief. Everything had gone so well. So much better than he had dared hope for. Dean hadn’t laughed at him. He hadn’t called security to have him thrown out.

And he would be seeing Dean again, soon.

The fact that this pleased him as much as it did also confused the hell out of him. So much so that he decided to just push the thought out of his head. At least for now. “Ok, well,” he said as he stood up. “I’d better go.”

Dean stood up as well. “Yeah, ok.”

Before he could take one step forward however, Dean was speaking. “Look, Sam,” he began as he shifted back and forth on his feet. “You coming here . . . it, um . . . I mean, it’s um . . . well . . . thank you.”

Sam could have teased Dean, but something told him that it would be unwise; that it had taken a lot for Dean to say those few words.

So instead, he simply said, “You’re welcome.”

Dean gave a nervous smile and nodded, then began to walk back out to the bedroom.

As Sam followed, he thought about how strange this all was. Two nights ago, he had fled from this place in a panic. Now he was leaving again . . . and this time he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Will you do me a favor?” Dean asked when they got to the door.

“Anything,” he answered just a little too quickly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean . . . sure.”

“Will you let the guys downstairs know how wonderful I was? After the last time . . . ”

“You got in trouble for that, didn’t you?”

“Let’s just say - no employee of the month for me.”

“I’ll tell them you rocked my world so hard, I’m still feeling the aftershocks.”

Dean rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yeah, ok. Just remember to sell it.”

“I will,” he said as he opened the door. He looked back and caught Dean’s eyes.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, Sam. See you soon.”


	6. Chapter 6

Five days.

Five entire days had passed and he had not seen nor heard from Sam once.

When Sam had made his promise to check up on him, Dean had thought, had really thought, that Sam would follow through. That he would soon be seeing the sincere, kind man.

But five days later . . . and nothing. Not a word. Not a sighting. Nothing.

And the worst part was, that he should have known this would happen. Should have known better. Complete strangers didn’t just suddenly take an interest in your well being. People didn’t behave like that. Normal people didn’t behave like that.

But who said Sam was normal, anyway? The guy thought he was Nostradamus, for heaven’s sake.

Dean gave a minute shake of his head at the bitter path that his thoughts were taking. Who was he kidding? The worst part wasn’t that he should have known better. The worst part was the almost crushing sense of disappointment that Sam hadn’t turned out to be who he thought he was.

Lifting his head, Dean surveyed the lounge, resolutely not looking for Sam one more time.

Even though he was. And he knew he was, so why was he pretending not to be?

As he continued his fruitless search, he caught the eye of a young man and woman standing a few yards away. They were wrapped around one another, as if they had just discovered each other, and were alternately looking at him and glancing down at his wrist. Most likely looking for the bracelet, making sure he was for rent before they approached him.

Well, he thought, at least a couple would be a change of pace. Night after night of mostly men had left him antsy for a woman; someone soft, maybe even delicate. Although by the looks of this one, she was more viper than woman.

But still . . . it was better than nothing.

He straightened and prepared to put on his best, fake, 100-watt smile when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

He turned away from the couple, effectively dismissing them, and turned to the distraction.

Sam.

Even from his vantage point at the back of the room there was no mistaking him. He was so much taller than everybody else that he looked like Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

Their eyes met at that moment, and Dean’s heart skipped a couple of beats as it seemed to dance within him. He absently put his hand on his chest and rubbed.

He barely had time to wonder why Sam was here now, after all this time, when the guy was standing in front of him, intense gaze settling on his face.

Damn, but the guy moved fast. Had to be those long legs.

“Hey,” Sam said. The word was casual; the tone anything but. Dean clearly heard the uncertainty and worry in Sam’s voice.

He had planned to echo Sam’s greeting. Say it with an air of nonchalance that implied that he was not impressed by Sam’s appearance. So no one could have been more surprised than him when he heard the words, “You didn’t call me,” come out of his mouth.

Mortified, he clamped his mouth shut, hoping that Sam hadn’t heard. Since when had he, Dean Winchester, turned into a spurned girl?

But of course he had heard - the man wasn’t deaf. And then that look of complete earnestness was on Sam’s face - the one that he’d already come to associate with the other man, as he said, “I did call.”

“You did?”

“Two days ago. The guy said you were fine and that he’d give you the message. I waited for you to call and when you didn’t I got nervous and . . . well, here I am.”

“They didn’t give me your message. I thought that you’d . . . ” Once again Dean clamped his mouth shut, cutting off his next words. He’d been about to say, I thought you’d forgotten about me. But how girly and sad would that have been?

“What? You thought I’d what?”

But Dean wasn’t going to finish that sentence. Wild horses couldn’t drag that out of him. “I thought you were a nutcase after all,” he finished lamely.

“You thought I was crazy?” Sam asked, sounding hurt.

Dean looked down and kicked at imaginary things on the floor. “No,” he admitted. “I thought you’d blown me off.”

Well, apparently there were some wild horses in here after all.

“I would never do that,” Sam said.

Dean met his gaze with a shrug. “Well, I’m still ok.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

They stood there for a minute, both of them nodding, both looking as uncomfortable as they felt. Dean had just reached the point of doing or saying anything to break the awkward silence when Sam did it for him. Well . . . I’m gonna go.”

“Go?” Dean asked, feeling crestfallen and confused. Sam had driven all the way out here just to see him and leave?

“Yeah. Go to the front desk. Tell them that I choose you. You know.” Sam smiled, flashing those killer dimples at him.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” Dean answered mechanically, his mind one step behind the actual conversation.

“But only if it’s ok. It is ok, right?”

And suddenly, his brain caught up. He flashed his own smile and said brightly, “Oh yeah. It’s ok. It’s definitely ok.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam stood outside the door to Dean’s room, his hand on the doorknob, apprehension mixing together with what he recognized as excitement.

When he had gotten no response after leaving the messages for Dean, he figured the other man had decided that he was a crackpot after all. And he supposed he really couldn’t blame him. The entire thing sounded pretty Twilight Zone. And the more time passed, the more he realized it.

So he had pretty much figured that he’d scared Dean off. And he could live with that, although he didn’t want to. But he still had to check up on him, still had to make sure that he was all right. Because despite knowing how off-the-wall the whole ‘prophetic dream’ thing sounded, he was still scared shitless for the guy.

So he had come here tonight, intent on simply seeing Dean and walking away. But then their eyes had met and he’d felt it. A spark. A tightening in his stomach, a fluttering in his chest that meant something. Just what he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was glad he was here. And although he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain, he was pretty damn sure that Dean had felt it too.

And now he stood, twisting the doorknob to Dean’s room open, trying to get that little voice in his head to be silent - the one that kept insisting that even being here was a betrayal to Jess.

He had barely entered and closed the door when Dean walked up to him, hands shoved in his pockets, looking up at him with an expression of curiosity.

Gone were the come-hither looks and the fuck-me stance.

This was the real Dean.

And wouldn’t you know it? He liked this Dean better.

He was about to open his mouth to speak, when Dean beat him to it. “The whole night, Sam? You got me for the whole night?”

Sam shrugged, feeling self-conscious already. “Yeah. Is that ok?”

Dean backed away, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Are you rich or something? Cause that’s a lot of money.”

“I’m not rich.”

“But then...”

Loathe to talk about his financial situation, he simply said, “Don’t worry about it.”

Dean crossed his arms at his chest and frowned at him.

“I thought we could go back into your room. Hang out for a while?” Sam asked a little too brightly, too quickly.

Dean nodded, giving Sam a look that told him he’d let it go for now. But that the topic was far from dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was awkward at first, neither of the men seeming to know what to say or do since the object wasn’t sex and Sam’s warning had already been given. But eventually, Sam spotted the Xbox sitting in front of the tv.

He pointed at it. “You got any good games?” he asked.

“Maybe. What do you play?”

Sam rubbed his hands together. “Anything.”

After the video games, they watched an old horror movie on tv. Sam discovered, much to his delight, that watching a movie with Dean was like watching MST 3000. The man never seemed to be at a loss for a wise-ass comment.

By the end of the five hours, Sam had laughed so much, that his sides were actually sore. God, he hadn’t laughed so hard since...well, since Jess.

The thought sobered him as he walked to the door.

But he hadn’t done anything, had he? Laughing wasn’t betrayal. Enjoying another person’s company wasn’t betrayal. Was it?

He reached the door and opened it, ready to say his goodbyes when Dean reached out and grabbed the door as well, holding it in place. “Sam, can I ask you something?”

“Anything, yeah.”

“Why the whole night?” he blurted out. “Not that I’m complaining, tonight was great. But . . . you could have seen downstairs that I was ok. So . . . so why the whole night?”

“Honestly?”

A small roll of the eyes. “No, lie to me. Yes, the truth.”

“Ok. Um . . . the thought of people touching you . . . like that idiot the other night...” Sam stopped, searching for the right words when he wasn’t even sure what the truth was. When he finally spoke, his answer surprised him as much as it surprised Dean.

“I don’t like it.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving a wide-eyed Dean staring at the closed door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was back three days later, but a last minute phone call from his father and a traffic jam on the freeway all conspired against him so that he arrived at the Palace much later than he usually did.

By the time he got to the lounge, the area was packed with people, and yet Dean...Dean was nowhere to be found.

He checked with the bartender, but the man merely shrugged and told him he had no idea where Dean was before adding that there were plenty of other companions to choose from.

Sam thanked him and walked back to the front desk, where the gentleman behind it kindly informed him that Dean was already occupied with another client. Then he smiled and politely reminded him that they had many other companions to choose from and surely one of them would suffice?

Sam, angry at himself for letting this happen, just shook his head and pulled out his credit card. “For the rest of the evening please. I’ll wait til he’s done.”

He waited a little over an hour, sitting in the lounge, nursing one lone drink until the page came to escort him upstairs.

Once inside the room he was met with the accustomed sight of the candlelit room; except that this time, Dean was not standing next to the door as he usually was.

Looking around he realized that most of the candles had actually been extinguished, causing the room to lose its air of eroticism and gain one of bleakness.

“Dean?” he called out.

Silence was his only answer. He tried again, louder this time.

“Dean, it’s me. Sam.”

Again there was no answer. Sam swallowed hard against the rising unease. Something was wrong here.

He walked further into the room, sliding the key into his pocket and peering into the gloom. And that’s when he saw him; sitting on the bed, head bowed, hands clasped tightly in front of him.

“Dean,” he breathed out in relief.

Dean lifted his head, acknowledging him at last. “Sam.”

Sam crossed the remaining distance to the bed and, sitting down next to Dean, searched his face for some clue as to why he hadn’t answered.

Even in the near darkness, he was able to find it in Dean’s too-bright eyes.

He recognized the look in them right away. Knew it because he saw the same haunted look in his own eyes every morning.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You ok?” He reached his hand out, but at Dean’s flinch, he let it drop back to his lap before it could make contact.

“Peachy,” Dean replied in a hoarse voice.

“Dean, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Dean shook his head and stood, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in his pants. “Nothing. Come on, let’s get away from the eye in the sky.”

Sam followed Dean into his living area, sitting down in the same place that he had occupied just three days before. The lighting here was bright, and he took advantage of it by leaning forward and looking Dean up and down, not even bothering hiding what he was doing.

He caught it right away - the redness around Dean’s throat, the matching redness encircling his wrists. “Are those what I think they are?” he asked, indicating the burgeoning bruises with a nod of his head.

Dean rubbed at his throat self-consciously. “It’s nothing.”

“Did someone do that to you?”

Dean’s only answer was to look away, like he didn’t have the energy to lie.

“The guy who was here before me?” Sam heard his voice rising. “Did he do this to you?”

Dean gave a half-hearted shake of his head. “Sam.”

“Why? Why would he hurt you?”

Dean’s sigh was heavy and deep. “You remember the guy from the other night?” he asked, his eyes remaining glued to the floor. Sam didn’t miss the fact that Dean had yet to really look at him. “The one in the lounge?”

“The jerk? The one who insulted you?”

“That one, yeah.”

“What about him?” A split second later his brain caught up with his mouth. “Is he the one that did this to you? He’s the one who hurt you?”

Dean tried for a smile; failed. “He wasn’t very happy with me.”

“Fuck!” Sam shot up from the chair, his mind racing, his hands clenching and unclenching with the need to strangle the ever-loving shit out of guy who had done this.

“Sam, calm down.”

He stopped, looked down to see that Dean was staring up at him from the other side of the room. He’d been pacing the floor and hadn’t even realized it.

“I can’t, Dean! That bastard hurt you. He can’t get away with something like that! He can’t, can he?”

“As long as I’m not permanently disabled or physically scarred . . . yeah he can.”

“What?” Sam shouted, not believing what he’d just heard. Not believing that Dean could be so accepting of it.

“Sam. It’s an occupational hazard.”

He walked back to where Dean was sitting and stood above him.

Voice shaking with impotent anger, he asked, “Dean, why do you do this? You’re a smart guy. You could do so many other things. Why are you here?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Sam knew he’d made a mistake. Dean stood up and took a step forward, forcing Sam to step back.

“You want to know what a guy like me is doing in a place like this?”

Dean’s face, which Sam had come to regard as so open, so friendly, was completely closed off, every emotion wiped clean.

“Well . . . yeah,” he said nervously.

“Well, I don’t think that’s any of your business. Sammy. ” The last word in particular was cold; harsh. It was meant to cut and it did.

Sam stepped away, chastened, the anger evaporating quickly. He’d gone too far. He’d had no right to ask something like that.

“You’re right. It is none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I just wanted to . . . ” he stopped. “I’m sorry.”

Dean didn’t answer, just continued to fix him with that glacial stare.

Sam sighed. He wanted to make things better, to fix what he’d just broken, but he had no clue as to how. He never had been good at this. Not even with Jess. His saving grace was that Jess had been so forgiving.

“Maybe I should just go.”

“Yeah. Maybe you should.”

He stared at Dean for another moment, searching those hazel eyes for the beginning of a thaw. But there was none. Accepting defeat, he muttered, “Yeah,” before finally turning away and walking out of the living area.

He had made it halfway across the bedroom when he heard Dean calling his name.

“Sam?”

He stopped and turned. Dean was only a few feet away. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Do you and your dad get along?”

The question surprised him, but he knew enough to recognize that it wasn’t about him. Not really. He answered it despite that; honestly, simply. “No. No, we don’t.”

“My dad and I . . . we’ve always gotten along great. This is gonna sound corny, but I’ve always considered him as much my friend as my dad.”

Sam took a few tentative steps forward. “Doesn’t sound corny.”

Dean nodded. “A couple of years ago, we lost my mom in a car accident.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Yeah, well. Things happen, right? The thing is, my dad, he never got over it. He started drinking. And gambling. Then gambling when he was drinking.”

Sam watched as Dean made his way over to the large bed and sat down on it cross-legged. After a moment, his eyes lost their focus, drifting off to something that Sam could not see, a place he could not be.

“See, when dad gambles, he always starts off winning. So he bets more. But he almost always ends up losing. But still, up until a few months ago, he could always cover his losses. For the most part.”

Sam inched over to the bed and sat down on it gingerly so as not to disturb the other man. He had the feeling however, that Dean was so far in his memory that nothing would disturb him.

“Then one night, he comes to my apartment - shaking, crying. I’d never seen him like that. So scared. He tells me that he’s lost a lot of money to some real important people. Money that he can’t pay back. Then he tells me that these guys are going to kill him for it.

I went to talk to my dad’s bookie, to see if there was anything I could do. He told me my dad was as good as dead, but he referred me to another guy anyway. Then he referred me to another guy. Who referred me to Fagan.”

“Fagan?”

“He runs this place. He took one look at me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Literally.”

Dean blinked, his eyes focusing at last and coming back to rest on Sam.

“Jesus, Dean. Let me get this straight. You’re working here to pay off your dad’s debt?”

Dean nodded, a sad smile gracing his features. “I do this for a year and my dad doesn’t get his head blown off. That was the deal.”

“A year.”

“Yeah.”

“And how long have you been here?”

“Almost five months.”

“Jesus.” Sam felt sick, literally sick and for a moment he could say nothing else. He had to close his eyes to stop the world from swimming.

No wonder Dean had been pissed. He had sounded so high and mighty in his righteous anger. So judgmental. Like such a fucking snob, when Dean was making the biggest sacrifice there was.

“Hey, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

Sam opened his eyes, found Dean peering at him.

He gave him a look that told Dean he knew he was full of shit.

Dean sighed. “Ok, yeah it is.”

“Does your dad know? Does your dad know you’ve done this?”

“Of course he does.”

“How could he, Dean? How could he let you do this?” he asked, incredulous.

“Hey, not a word about my dad, ok? He had no choice. It was either this or die. What the fuck else was he supposed to do?”

He’d hit a nerve. It was obvious that Dean was fiercely protective of his father and wouldn’t stand to hear anything negative about him.

He wisely decided not to pursue it further. He would just have to start calling Dean’s father  
an asshole in private.

He was about to apologize when a thought hit him. Once more, curiosity got the better of him and he found himself asking, “How much did your dad owe? How much are you paying off?”

For a moment, he didn’t think Dean would answer. As soon as he’d asked the question, he figured he’d be hearing Dean telling him to go to hell.

But Dean did answer. In a ragged, uneven voice, he said, “A little over three hundred thousand.”

Dean looked down, but not before Sam caught the shimmer in his eyes. “The price of a human soul.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Fagan watched the monitor intently. He watched as the young man closed the door behind him, leaving for the night. He watched as Dean smiled to himself and began putting out the rest of the candles.

Then he picked up the phone and hit the first button on the speed dial.

“Sir? It’s Fagan.”

He exchanged pleasantries for a moment before getting to the purpose of the call.

“I’m calling because . . . well . . . Sam has been here, sir.”

He paused to listen.

“More than once, sir. But I have been monitoring the situation.”

Another pause.

“Yes sir. I do think we need to talk.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean lay back on the huge bed, his hands clasped under his head, and mused about how close he’d come to letting Sam walk away earlier.

Too close really. And all because Sam had asked the wrong question.

Besides his father, he had never told a soul about the deal he had made. Not one of his friends, either outside these walls or within, knew a thing about it.

And yet he had told Sam. At the last moment, he’d made the monumental decision that he was going to answer Sam’s question.

He felt like he should have been surprised at himself. But he wasn’t. With Sam, things that should have been difficult were easy.

But then again, things that should have been easy were difficult.

Go figure.

He smiled as his thoughts began to drift, landing here and there on all things Sam, from the first time that he walked in through the door to the incredible, soul-baring conversation they’d had tonight.

Recalling all of it was almost enough to erase the shitty way the evening had started.

Almost.

He lifted a hand to his still-sore throat and grimaced at the thought of the bruises he’d find there tomorrow.

God, he needed a shower. A nice, long hot one that would get the smell of that man off of him. Maybe if he stayed under the spray long enough, worked at it long enough, he could get the feel of the man off of his body.

 _Where’s your little boyfriend now, whore? Hmm? You think that was funny what you did to me? Still think it’s funny?_

He rose from the bed, desperate now for the shower, thoughts of Sam now replaced with thoughts of the man placing the leather collar around his neck and yanking it tight.

The soft sound of the door opening stopped him in his tracks and he turned to see who could possibly be coming in.

He saw, much to his dismay, that it was Eagon walking through the door.

“Fagan wants to see you, Winchester.”

Dean could only sigh as he headed toward the open door. He’d known he’d be back in Fagan’s office eventually, he’d just been hoping it would be later rather than sooner.

“Lead the way, Eagon,” he mumbled.

But Eagon didn’t so much lead the way as walk next to him, a huge hand clamped down tight on his shoulder as if Dean might bolt at any moment.

Dean recognized the gesture for what it so clearly was, a way for Eagon to assert his control, but he didn’t challenge it. He was much more careful around the man lately; ever since Eagon had pulled his Mr. Hyde act on him. No, it was best to simply go with the flow - at least for now.

By the time they got to Fagan’s office, it felt like Eagon’s fingers had been permanently imbedded into his skin. He gladly disengaged himself from the clutching hand and all but ran to the chair across from Fagan’s desk.

He didn’t even wait for Fagan to speak, thinking that the sooner they got this over with, the sooner he could get back to his room and his shower. “So, what’d I do this time, Fagan?” he asked.

Fagan looked mildly annoyed at not being allowed to speak first. “What do you mean?”

Dean rubbed at his sore shoulder. “You know the only time you call me up here is when I’ve done something wrong. So, let’s just cut to the chase. What’d I do and what’s the punishment?”

Fagan chuckled and Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Chuckling was never good with this man. “You’ve got it all wrong, Dean. I brought you up here to talk to you, that’s all.”

“Really?” he asked, his tone clearly indicating that he believed no such thing.

“Really.”

“Ok. What did you want to talk about? The weather? The gas prices? Bush’s approval rating?”

“Dean, could you at least try to be serious and respectful? For once?”

He could tell that Fagan was getting very irritated, very quickly. Knowing it would be in his best interest to back off, he said, “Fine. Sorry sir. Go on.”

“I want to talk to you about that young man you were with most of the night.”

“Sam? What about him?”

“Tell me about your time together.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me why you’re never in sight of the cameras.”

Shit. He’d known this was coming. He really should have had a story prepared. He was slipping. “Sam doesn’t like the room,” he said, opting for partial honesty. “He likes my room. He always insists we go in there.”

“Do you have intercourse?”

Dean almost burst out laughing at the question. Leave it to Fagan to make something as tawdry as rented sex sound pristine.

“Sometimes. But mostly he just talks a lot. He’s a talker.” At Fagan’s rather dubious look, he added, “But he walks out satisfied every time.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does. He’s said as much. Always comments on how happy he is with you.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, Dean, that Sam belongs to a very prominent family in this community. Very prominent.”

“Oh?” Dean asked, trying hard not to let his surprise show.

“He’s never mentioned that to you?”

“Um . . . no.”

“Well, in any case . . . ”

“Prominent?” he asked before Fagan could continue. “As in rich, prominent?”

Fagan leveled a forbidding look at him. “In any case, I think you can see why it is so important that he is well taken care of and satisfied. You do see that, don’t you, Dean?”

Dean felt himself getting irritated, not so much at Fagan as at the fact that Sam had lied to him about this very thing. “What exactly are you getting at, Fagan? He’s told you I keep him satisfied, right?”

“What I’m getting at, Dean, is that I would like to make certain that things stay that way. From now on, you will not take him into your room. He will stay either in the bedroom or the bathroom. I want him in front of a camera at all times. Do you understand?”

“Why? So you can personally monitor the action? Make sure that I’m moaning convincingly enough?”

“Dean!”

“I thought the point was to make him happy. Keeping him restricted to those two rooms is not going to make him happy.”

“Dean, you are perilously close to being kicked out of here for good.”

The threat was enough to leach the irritation from him and get him to admit defeat. He sighed and slumped down in the chair. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

“I don’t care what you tell him, just make it so.”

Dean had to fight the urge to spit out the words, “Yes, captain.” Somehow he didn’t think Fagan would see the humor in it, even if by some slim chance he was a Star Trek fan.

“Fine. Whatever. You’re the boss,” he said. At the murderous look in Fagan’s eye, he quickly added a meek-sounding, “Sir.”

“You’ll see him again in three days, correct?”

“That’s what we agreed on. He’s getting me the whole night.”

“Good. Just remember our conversation and you’ll do fine.”

Fagan looked up at Eagon. “Now, please get him out of my sight. I’ve had about all I can handle of his attitude tonight.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Eagon answered as he disengaged himself from the shadowy corner and slinked forward.

Dean stood and walked to his escort’s side, thankful that it was over; very thankful that Fagan hadn’t felt like doling out punishments this time or suggesting a nice, friendly blow job.

“Oh and Dean . . . ” Fagan called just as he and Eagon were nearing the door.

Dean stopped and turned. “Sir?”

“Put some makeup on those bruises for tomorrow, would you? They look atrocious.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bar was loud, smoky and crowded. Not something that Sam usually enjoyed, but tonight it didn’t bother him one bit.

He lifted his beer bottle and took a long sip, enjoying the feel of the cold, harsh liquid running down his throat.

He had just finished filling in both Warren and Brad on the latest with Dean and was now waiting to hear their reactions.

Brad was the first to speak after a few seconds of stunned silence. “Holy shit. So he’s doing all of this for his dad?”

Sam nodded. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

“Amazing? That’s huge, man! I mean, I love my dad, but I don’t think I could do it,” Brad said.

Warren turned to him. “Sure you could. You just close your eyes and think of England.”

That earned him a scowl and a solid punch on the arm. “Very funny. And I suppose you could do it?” Brad asked.

“Take it up the ass for an entire year? Man, I don’t know. My dad and I are pretty tight but . . . damn.”

“Could you do it, Sam?” Brad asked.

“Yeah, right. For my father? That’d be a tough one to call guys.”

“Well, at any rate, what Dean is doing is pretty unbelievable. Damn near saintly,” Warren said.

Sam nodded enthusiastically. “I know! I mean before this he was working a mechanic, but he’d applied to the fire department. He said it was something he’s always wanted to do. Help people. Save people. He’d just begun the testing and then this happened and he just gave it all up. Without a second thought. And . . . ”

Sam stopped abruptly when he saw the identical broad grins that both of his friends were sporting. “What?” he asked warily.

Warren and Brad ignored him and looked at each other. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Brad asked.

“I believe I am,” answered Warren.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“You, my friend,” said Warren, pointing at him, “like Dean.”

“Well, of course I like Dean. He’s a great guy.”

“No. You don’t just like him. You like him, like him.”

“What?” Sam turned to Brad, saw that he was nodding sagely, a knowing smile on his face.

“Ok, first of all,” he said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “since when did my two best friends turn into thirteen-year-old girls? And second of all - I . . . I don’t like him like that.”

“You don’t?” asked Warren.

“No! I mean, yeah, ok, he’s smart and funny and easy to get along with, and interesting to talk to and gorgeous and . . . and . . . oh my God . . . ” The words drifted into silence as understanding began to dawn.

“Yeah,” Brad said, nodding.

Sam, in a hushed voice, asked, “Do I? Do I like him like that?”

“Well, if you don’t, you are definitely on the way to it, my friend.”

Sam dropped his head down to the table, feeling completely overwhelmed. He had not meant for this to happen. All he had wanted to do was to help Dean. To spare him from meeting Jess’ fate and keep him safe. “When did this happen? I was only seeing him to protect him. I don’t understand.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know,” Warren said dryly.

“But I can’t. I can’t have feelings for Dean!” he cried.

“Why the hell not?”

He felt like he couldn’t even begin to put it into words. The sense of betrayal, the guilt, the wrongness of it . . . he didn’t even know where to start. “Because Jess . . . ” he said, trying to articulate it but failing.

Warren’s voice got quiet, barely audible over the din of the bar. “Sam, having feelings for Dean doesn’t mean that you’re betraying Jess.”

“No, it’s too soon. It wouldn’t be right,” Sam said, voice catching and breaking on the words.

“Sam, no one is saying that Dean has to be the next big love of your life. But he could be really good for you right now.”

“Besides,” Brad said, jumping in. “Jess would have wanted you to be happy. You know he would have.”

Of course Sam knew it. He’d always known it. But he was getting damn tired of hearing it. The words were always a cruel reminder that Jess was dead. Not just dead, but murdered, cruelly and viciously murdered.

“No. This isn’t happening,” he said with determination as he straightened.

“What?” both Warren and Brad asked in unison.

“Maybe I am starting to have feelings for Dean. Maybe. But nothing is going to come out of it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too soon. Because I’m not ready. Because Jess is dead and it’s fucking unfair and how could I possibly even think about anyone in that way when he’s rotting away in a hole six feet underground?” He slammed the beer down on the table and stood up, breathing in and out like a marathon runner.

Warren reached for him. “Sam, wait. Calm down.”

But he was past the point of calm. He was damn near frantic, trying to cope with something that he’d hidden from himself like a dirty, little secret. Something that he should have seen, but had not allowed himself to acknowledge.

He rushed out of the bar, deaf to the sound of his friends desperately shouting his name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Sam stepped into Dean’s room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

He looked around briefly and saw that Dean was standing right next to the door, arms crossed, a stern expression on his face. “You’re late,” was Dean’s curt greeting.

Caught off-guard by the obvious attitude, Sam could only mutter, “Uh, yeah, just a few minutes. Traffic was bad.”

Dean’s stern look did not waver. “Uh huh.”

“Is something wrong?”Sam asked.

“No. What could possibly be wrong? Other than the fact that you lied to me.”

“I did what?”

“Lied to me, Sam.”

Sam quickly thought back to their conversations, racking his brain to remember any time that he had lied. And while it was true that he hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with information about himself, he couldn’t remember lying outright.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean,” he finally said.

“Let me refresh your memory then. The other night when you were here, I asked how you could afford to rent me for the whole night. I asked if you were rich. And do you remember your answer? It was no. Now I find out that you are rich. And apparently part of some big, important family to boot.”

Sam was both surprised and dismayed to find out that Dean had this information. He hated being associated with his family and their wealth, had always tried his best to distance himself from it. But he couldn’t help but be a bit amused as well, because an angry Dean was a. . . well, a cute Dean.

He shook his head, angry at himself for even thinking that. Thoughts like that would make this all that much harder. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“I’ve got my sources.”

But God help him, defensive Dean was even cuter than angry Dean.

“I didn’t lie to you, Dean. I’m not rich. My parents are.”

“Ok, see, now you’re splitting hairs.”

“No, not really. See, if you looked up dysfunctional family in the dictionary, you’d see me and my parents.”

That earned him a small laugh. Feeling encouraged, he continued. “Father’s a cold, domineering, control-freak. Mother’s a flighty socialite with an unnatural love of Vicodin. Being a part of that family isn’t something that I’m proud of in any way, shape or form. They’re as far removed from my life as possible.”

Dean’s face softened. The earlier anger was mostly gone, replaced by sympathy. “You could have told me,” he said.

“Are you really mad at me about this?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean said as he kicked at the ground, a gesture that invariably made Sam smile. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you,” Sam said, turning serious. “I guess I didn’t think it was relevant, but I am sorry. Ok?”

“Yeah, ok. And no, it’s not relevant. It just bothered me that you didn’t say anything. I honestly don’t care if you’re Joe Schmo or a Rockefeller.”

“I know you don’t. And thanks.”

“Yeah, well.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked up with frank curiosity. “So how rich and prominent are we talking here?”

Sam laughed. “Pretty rich and pretty prominent.”

“Like how rich and prominent?”

“All right, you’ve heard of the name Keller?”

“As in Helen?”

“No. Think a little closer to home.”

Dean was silent for a moment, furrowed brow indicating he was deep in thought. Finally he looked up. “Keller. As in Keller pharmaceuticals? As in Anderson Keller Drive? As in Keller Elementary?”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re Sam Keller?”

“Afraid so.”

The astonishment on Dean’s face was almost comical. “Holy shit, Sam! You’re like royalty in this town!”

“See, this is why I don’t like to mention it. People look at me differently when they find out. You’re already looking at me differently.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Good. So can I come in now?”

“What?” Dean said, looking around as if just now realizing that they were still at the room’s entrance. “Oh yeah. Come in.”

Dean moved back and Sam stepped in, immediately heading for Dean’s living space. He stopped when he felt Dean’s hand grasp his arm.

“We can’t go in there.”

“Why not?”

Dean shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes looking everywhere but at Sam. “Because.”

“Because why?”

He looked up, eyes glittering strangely in the light. “Because I’m supposed to keep you out here in front of the cameras at all times.”

“Why? Since when?”

“Since . . . I don’t know Sam. Since the last time you were here. Apparently, you’re such an important person, Fagan wants to make sure that you’re completely satisfied. So he wants to see every little sordid detail of what we’re doing. Or at least that’s what he says.”

“Oh great,” Sam said. Having to say what he had to say in this hated room was going to make things harder than he’d expected.

“Come on, I have an idea,” Dean said as he took Sam by the arm and pulled him toward the bed.

“What?” Sam asked warily.

Dean sat down on the bed, scooting back until he was sitting against the headboard. He patted the empty spot next to him. “I already told Fagan you were mostly a talker. So you can lie down here next to me and we can talk. And it’ll look really intimate. Maybe we can even get under the covers and pretend we’re getting it on.”

“Getting it on? Oh, Christ,” Sam said as he rolled his eyes. But he sat down on the bed nevertheless.

Dean kicked off his shoes. “Now, lie down,” he said just before he laid his body on the bed and turned on his side.

Sam did as he was told, taking his own shoes off and turning so that both of them were facing each other.

“Now what?” he asked.

“In a couple of minutes we’ll get under the covers. This is a good plan, trust me.”

He cleared his throat and prepared to tell Dean that he could no longer come here. That he would have to find an alternate way to check up on him and make sure he was safe. He’d been dreading the moment, feeling like he was abandoning Dean, but still, it had to be done.

But as he looked across the small expanse that separated them, he found his eyes drawn to the bruise around Dean’s neck. He lifted his hand and gently placed his fingertips against Dean’s throat.

“Does it hurt?”

He startled at the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Dean swallowed heavily against his fingers. “A little,” he admitted quietly.

Sam’s focus wavered as he was once again consumed with hatred for the man that had done this. Just another bastard whose aim was to hurt and destroy something beautiful. Sam was no fool, he knew he was drawing parallels to Jess, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

“I want to kill him for what he did to you,” he said vehemently, meaning every word.

Dean reached up and placed his hand on Sam’s. For a moment Sam thought he was going to pull his hand away, but he didn’t.

“Sam, I’m ok. I got through it and it’s over. And I’m ok.”

“It’s not ok.”

“You can’t protect me from everything.”

Sam looked at the purplish band of color encircling Dean’s wrist and said sadly, “No, I guess I can’t.”

 _Tell him now._

Sam frowned as his internal voice of reason pushed him to do what he’d come here to do.

He had to do it. He had to tell Dean. He had to break this off. Whatever this was.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean asked.

“Sure.”

“Why do you come here?”

The question couldn’t have been more unexpected and Sam stumbled clumsily over the answer. “I...to protect you. You know that.”

“Ok. Then can I ask you something else?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Do you like me?”

“Of course I like you.”

“Yeah, I know you do. But do you like me? Do you really like me? I mean, I think you do. And since I’ve been here, I’ve gotten pretty good at knowing who wants me and who doesn’t. And I thought you did.”

Sam felt like he was drowning in deja vu and for a moment he was tempted to search the room for his friends to see if they’d put Dean up to this.

But of course there was no one else in the room. Just him and Dean. And Dean, who knew nothing about the eerie coincidence, was staring at him intently, waiting for his answer.

He could lie. But it wouldn’t have been right and it wouldn’t have been fair - to either of them. “I think you’re beautiful, Dean. Inside and out. Yeah, I like you a lot.”

“So why don’t you ever kiss me?”

“What?” he whispered.

“Don’t you want to? I mean . . . I just want to know. Ever since that first night, you’ve never even so much as touched me. I just want to know.”

“Dean, the answer to that question would probably take days to muddle through. Let’s just leave it at the fact that I’m completely fucked up.”

“Because of what happened to your friend?”

“Yes.”

Dean dropped his hand and ran his fingers along the edge of the sheets. He seemed to be thinking, but Sam couldn’t be sure. The entire conversation had taken on a very surreal quality, and right now, he couldn’t be sure of anything.

“Do you want to kiss me now?” Dean asked, looking back up.

When Sam didn’t answer right away, Dean added, “Because, I really think I want you to.”

Sam felt like his breath had been stolen from him. He had to struggle to whisper his words. “You want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“You like me back then.”

“I do. God help me, Sam. I do.”

“I don’t think we should, Dean,” he said and shifted away, ready to get up.

But Dean reached out and placed his hand against Sam’s cheek and it felt so warm and so right that he instantly stilled. “It’s only a kiss.”

Sam looked from Dean’s eyes, wide and nervous but still smiling, to his lips, to his full, pouty lips, and was lost.

And just like that, all thoughts of recrimination and betrayal were gone. He leaned forward just as Dean leaned forward, mirror images of each other, until their lips met.

It was, Sam thought, every bit as amazing as he remembered, and he had to wonder why he’d denied this to himself for so long.

The kiss broke apart, but they did not. Sam’s fingers were now threaded through Dean’s hair, while Dean’s hand still gently cupped Sam’s cheek.

“That was nice,” Sam whispered.

“Nice? I must be losing my touch if all I get is nice,” Dean joked.

Sam, who at this moment was feeling more alive than he’d felt in a long time, simply smiled and pulled him close. “Let’s try again. See if you can up that rating.”


	8. Chapter 8

Dean stared at the closed door from across the room, the tendrils of anticipation that were curling up in his belly turning the waiting into a pleasurable exercise.

Sam would be walking through that door any minute now, and that meant that tonight was going to be a good night.

A very good night.

He spared a quick glance at the camera and wondered if Fagan and his cohorts were still bothering to watch him. After four solid weeks of Sam coming to see him every few days, they still hadn’t progressed much past the kissing and groping stage. Granted, some of that had been some pretty heavy kissing and groping, but still . . . none of what they did even came close to approaching the sex that Sam was supposed to be paying for.

But so far, he had yet to be called into Fagan’s office to answer charges of why he wasn’t pleasing Sam. There had been no Fagan, no punishments . . . even Eagon had backed off.

And while it was a little strange not to be the designated whipping boy, he was most definitely not complaining. How could he possibly, when his life was going better than it had in months?

The sound of the door opening drew Dean from his thoughts and he watched as Sam entered the room and made his way toward him with a shy wave. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and fidgeted, trying not to look too eager, the beginning of a grin already forming.

By the time Sam reached him and pulled him close to his body, Dean was grinning from ear to ear. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he were to look into a mirror right now, he’d probably see a moony idiot looking back at him.

But as he felt the warmth and strength of Sam’s hands against his back, he realized that he didn’t much care.

“Miss me?” he whispered against Sam’s ear.

He felt Sam’s body shiver against his, just the reaction he was looking for, and felt his own body respond in kind.

They pulled away from each other, long enough for Sam to look down at him and say, “Always,” before leaning in for a kiss.

And Dean, who was not usually prone to eloquent, romantic musings, not even when they were just in his own head, had to admit that this felt like his own little piece of heaven.

And to think that six weeks ago, he’d been existing in a state of suspended animation - the only way that he knew how to survive in this place without breaking down completely. And now here he was, feeling perfectly content and safe in this man’s arms.

It all came down to the fact that when he was with Sam, he felt alive again, like someone woken up from a very deep slumber. It was, if he were to be truthful, a little frightening.

But he could handle this kind of fear. Especially if it came with such earthshaking kisses.

“So tell me,” Sam said when they finally parted. “Any bad ones?”

Dean led him to the bed, giving a low groan and rolling his eyes at the question. Sam did this every time they got together, asking for a quick run down of his customers; always focusing on the bad ones. He was, in this respect only, like a jealous boyfriend. It was a little on the irritating side, but Dean didn’t really mind all that much. He understood that Sam was still freaked out by his nightmare. He understood that he worried.

And although he would never admit it to Sam, most of the time he found the overprotectiveness kind of endearing.

Most of the time.

“Well?” Sam prodded when he didn’t get his answer right away.

“Sam, come on.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

Dean briefly ran through the benefits of lying before deciding against it. He could be a damn good liar when he needed to be, but he didn’t want to lie to Sam. “The asshole was here yesterday,” he finally admitted with a sigh.

Sam didn’t even have to ask who the asshole was. It was their code for the guy that he had argued with that night in the lounge.

Sam’s brow wrinkled, his voice dropping into a low growl. “Again?”

Dean merely shrugged and waited for the jealous boyfriend routine to begin.

“How bad did he hurt you?”

“He didn’t really hurt me. Mostly it was me having to endure his ‘I’m high and mighty and you exist to serve me’ attitude.”

“Dean, you can tell me the truth.”

“I am. He didn’t hurt me, I swear.”

Sam looked down at the bedspread, fanning his fingers over it. The intensity radiating from him was an almost physical thing, and after a few seconds it became unnerving enough that Dean felt he had to say something, anything, to break into the silence.

“Hey, I’m ok, Sam. I mean, it wasn’t lollipops and rainbows, but it wasn’t all that bad.”

When Sam finally looked up, Dean was relieved to see that the intensity had been dialed down a couple of notches. “I just keep thinking; maybe that’s the guy who hurts you,” Sam said.

Dean just stared at him, not quite comprehending.

“In my dream, I mean,” Sam elaborated.

Being all too familiar with how sensitive this topic of conversation could be, Dean knew to tread lightly. “You know, Sam. As bad as it must have been, maybe it was just a dream and not a . . . what did you call it - a portent,” he said, giving himself a mental pat on the back at remembering the word.

But Sam, as usual, didn’t even entertain that suggestion. “No, Dean. It wasn’t just a dream. It’s going to happen.” He shook his head. “And at any rate, what you just told me only reinforces what I’ve been thinking for a while now - that we have to get you out of here.”

“Yeah, I already told you. I can’t leave. Not even for a few hours. This place is like prison.”

“No, I’m talking about getting you out of here for good,” Sam said.

“See, now you lost me.”

But instead of explaining, Sam began to cast almost furtive glances around the room. Suddenly, Dean could see his previously imagined good night going up in smoke and flames.

“I . . . um . . . I talked to my father yesterday,” Sam said, gaze settling back on Dean.

“Uh huh.”

“About him lending me the money so that we can get you out of here.”

“What?”

He couldn’t possibly have heard right. There was no way.

But Sam was still talking, still explaining. “I figured you’ve got about six months to go - so what is that - a hundred and fifty thousand? If my father lends me the money, then we can get you out of here for good.”

Dean jumped up from the bed, taking a few steps back to put some distance between himself and Sam. He was conscious of the fact that he was shaking, but not from cold or fear. “I can’t believe you, Sam.”

“What?”

“What?” Dean mimicked. “First of all, you didn’t even ask me. You keep saying we, but you went completely behind my back on this.”

“I . . . ”

“Did you tell even tell your father what the money was for?”

“I just told him that a friend of mine really needed it.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that he’d think about it.”

“Well, you can tell him there’s nothing to think about, because the answer is no.”

“No to what?”

He turned and leveled a look at Sam that would have most people cringing away. But Sam seemed unfazed.

“Look, what’s the big deal?” Sam asked, also standing now. “That amount of money is a drop in the bucket to my father. He wouldn’t ever miss it, trust me. And it would get you out of here. Out of this life. And put you where you’d be safe.”

“I already told you. I’m probably safer in here than out there.”

“No,” Sam said stubbornly. “I had that dream for a reason.”

“Sam, I am not some damsel in distress that you have to save, all right? I can handle my own problems. Besides, there’s no way that I’m going to be in debt to anyone for that much money. Not even you. And sure as hell not your dad.”

“What? You wouldn’t be . . . ”

“Yes, I would,” he said, cutting Sam off. “Yes, I would, Sam.”

“I just want to help you.”

“You do help me,” he said. “Sam, you help me just by coming here and being with me. That’s what I need from you. Not for you to come in here thinking that you’re going to fix everything with a wave of your rich guy wand.”

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“The fuck it isn’t. You think I don’t see it all the damn time? People come in here, they think because they have a little money that they’re God. Well, they’re not and you’re not.”

Dean watched as Sam’s face registered hurt followed quickly by anger. He’d obviously hit a nerve.

“Fine, fuck it then. If you want to stay here, getting fucked by strangers every night, then by all means do it.”

Dean felt his hands clench into tight fists and he had to bite down on his lip to keep from lashing out. But still, if Sam had been just a couple of feet closer, he would have decked him - nice guy or not. “You shit.”

“Dean.”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out of my room.”

“Wait a minute. Calm down. There’s no reason to say that.”

“Did you not just hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

“Ok, look, I know I shouldn’t have said that. And I’m sorry.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Wait, I say one thing, and you’re throwing my ass out on the street, but it’s ok for you to insult me? And I can take it because I’m rich, is that it?”

“That’s not what I was . . . ”

“Bullshit,” Sam said. Then his voice softened as he ran a hand through his hair, obviously trying to calm down. “Look, we both said some things that we didn’t mean here.”

“Sure sounded like you meant yours.”

“I’m trying to apologize here, can you just stop for a second?”

Dean just stared at him. He was already losing the edge of anger, but he wasn’t quite at the point of forgiving and forgetting.

“Fine. You know what? I’ll just go,” Sam said, but he hesitated, as if waiting for Dean to try and stop him.

But Dean merely shrugged. “Fine.”

As Dean watched Sam grunt in frustration and turn and head for the door, he was reminded of a similar scene that took place only a few weeks ago, with Sam almost walking out the door and him watching. God, talk about deja vu. What was it about them that one was always walking away from the other?

Back then, he had made the wise choice of stopping Sam before he could leave.

And now? Was he really going to let the best thing to come into his life in months leave because of . . . what? The Winchester pride? The Winchester stubbornness?

He knew from a lifetime of experience that both of the family traits were a force to be reckoned with and yet he hadn’t thought twice about discarding his pride when it came to selling his soul for his father. Why couldn’t he do the same for Sam?

And then a sobering thought struck him. What if Sam walked out that door and never came back? And then an entirely selfish thought - where would he be then?

He decided, right then and there, that he didn’t want to find out.

Anger, pride, stubbornness be damned - he didn’t want Sam to go.

He had just opened his mouth to call out the other man’s name when Sam froze, hand on the doorknob, and turned his head.

“I don’t want to go,” Sam said softly, looking in the direction of the wall. “I mean, I will if you want me to. But I don’t want to.”

Dean closed his mouth and swallowed hard, enjoying the feel of relief at hearing those words. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Sam crossed the room to him in a few long strides. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. Or go behind your back.”

“I know. I just . . . it’s a sensitive topic. And . . . I’m sorry too.”

“So we’re cool?”

Dean grabbed the front of Sam’s shirt and looked up into his eyes. “We’re cool.”

Sam gave a grateful chuckle. “Oh shit, that’s good.” Then after a pause he added, “Cause traffic right now would have been a bitch.”

And although Dean came back with a perfectly dry, “Asshole,” there was not an ounce of rancor behind it.

This time it was Sam that led them back to the bed, Sam that pulled Dean down to it so that they were sitting close to each other on its edge.

“Dude, you know what just happened here?” Dean asked.

“What?”

“We just had our first fight.”

“Second one, I think.”

“Either way, it really blew.”

“Totally,” Sam agreed.

“Let’s does not do that again for a while, all right?”

Sam laughed. “Fine by me.” Then he leaned over and placed his lips against Dean’s cheek.

“You know,” he said, his breath tickling Dean’s skin, “I wouldn’t worry about you so much if I didn’t . . . ”

“What?” Dean whispered.

“You know . . . ”

“I do. But I want to hear the big, seven-foot tall guy sound like a girl.”

Sam pushed him away. “You’re a dick.” But he was laughing as he said it, and once again Dean’s night seemed bright with possibilities.

Then Sam got a hold of his shirt and pulled him close, still laughing, still smiling, and planted a kiss against his mouth. It was one of those happy kisses, one that carries no desire and no sex, but that still suffuses your entire body with warmth.

Dean responded in kind, placing one hand on the back of Sam’s neck and pulling him down until they were both horizontal and entangled in each other.

After just a few seconds, the kiss began to change. No longer whimsical and fun, it deepened, turning hot and sensual.

Before Dean’s brain could even fully process it, the kiss was changing again. Now it was raw, ravenous. The kind of kiss where you just can’t get enough, soon enough.

Dean was aware of his breath coming very fast and that Sam’s hands seemed to be leaving a trail of fire wherever they touched him. He was also aware, now that Sam’s leg rubbed against his, that they were both very, very hard.

And that Sam wasn’t stopping; that he wasn’t pulling away with that half-apologetic smile on his face like he always did.

Dean had known they were moving toward this, had figured it was inevitable. But now that he was here, with Sam’s long fingers making quick work of his shirt and jeans, he found that he was nervous. No, nervous didn’t quite cover it.

He was downright scared.

He swallowed hard and shifted, and with gentle but insistent hands, lifted Sam’s head from where he had been nibbling on his collarbone, so that he could see his face.

Sam stared back at him with eyes made dark with desire. But there was something else there too - a reverence, a veneration, that Dean had never experienced before.

Dean had been wanted before, of course. Wanted for his face, for his body . . . hell, wanted for his car. But never like this. No one had ever looked at him the way that Sam was looking at him. Looking at him as if he were something special, something to be treasured and cherished.

He touched the ends of Sam’s hair with his fingertips and kissed the strong, muscled chest above him.

“Dean?” Sam gasped breathlessly.

Permission. Sam was asking for permission.

He bit his lip and indicated the night stand with a tilt of his head. Voice barely above a whisper, he managed to say, “Stuff’s in the top drawer.”

It took Sam a couple of minutes to get ready, and in that time, Dean just stared up at him, content to watch the handsome face above him and marvel at his luck.

And then there was no more time for thought because Sam was above him again, positioned snugly between his legs and gazing at him as if he just wanted to devour him.

“I want you so bad,” Sam breathed out.

Just the words were enough to make Dean shiver with longing. “So come get me,” he said, both surprised and pleased to find he was no longer afraid.

And with a sigh and a brief, wet kiss, Sam did just that.

Sam moved, Dean thought, just like he knew he would - gentle and slow. He knew that Sam was controlling himself, taking his time because he didn’t want to hurt him.

Even so it did hurt a little. Even after all this time, the initial entrance was uncomfortable at best.

He placed his hands on Sam’s arms, feeling the hard muscle underneath the soft skin, and tried to concentrate on what felt good and not the burning, stretching feeling that always made him feel so helpless. So much like a . . . well, like a girl.

And then Sam shifted, changing his angle and plunging deeper.

Dean gasped, arching off the bed and gripping Sam’s arms tight as sparks ignited deep within his body.

“Good?” Sam asked with an evil smirk, obviously knowing that it was.

“Great. Fucking great,” he panted.

And that was the last halfway intelligible thing he said for a while. The rest of his speech consisted of moans and desperate pleadings to God and short muttered curses. Because every time Sam pressed into him, it just got better and better and that center of heat in his groin was growing and growing . . .

And not long after it started, Dean was arching off the bed again, body locked tight as his orgasm blasted wave after wave of pleasure through him.

Seconds later, he was coming down from the high, body relaxing and thought and logic grudgingly returning. He became aware that Sam was moving faster now, harder, his face creased so that he appeared to be in pain.

“You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful,” Sam whispered.

The name ‘Sammy’ was on the tip of Dean’s tongue. It seemed so natural to use it. But remembering what happened last time he had said it, he stopped himself just in time. Instead he said, “So are you,” in a low voice and, wrapping one leg around Sam’s waist, pulled him in even closer.

That seemed to be all Sam needed to push him over. He felt the other man stiffen and shudder and then Sam was pressing his face against the curve of his neck, grunting and calling out to his own god until he finally went still.

Dean ran his fingers through Sam’s messy, sweat-soaked hair and smiled the lazy smile of someone completely sated. And when Sam’s head began to rise, he knew that he would see that same smile on Sam’s face. Because that had been everything he’d been hoping it would be.

Except that when Sam’s head came all the way up, and Dean could finally look at him, there was no lazy smile. There was no smile at all.

No, Sam was now looking at him the same way he had that very first night, right before he’d taken off.

Before Dean could say anything, Sam pulled out of him and stood, his face marred by the horror that was etched onto his features.

“Sam?” he whispered.

“Oh my God, Dean. I . . .”

He sat up, stretching out his arm to the man that was now getting dressed as if he were in a race. “Sam, what’s wrong?”

Sam didn’t even spare him a glance. He muttered, “I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have.”

“Sam, just come back to bed. We’ll talk about it,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and steady.

But Sam was fully dressed now and steadily backing away from him, his face streaked with tears and so pale that Dean feared he was going to be sick. Dean started to stand, scared now for him, but was stopped when Sam held out a trembling hand. “Don’t come near me.”

Dean dropped back on the bed, worry becoming quickly replaced by hurt. “What is wrong with you?” he asked.

Sam shook his head and without another word, made for the door, running through it and slamming it shut behind him.

Too shocked to move, Dean could only stare across the room.

It had happened again.

The first time it hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t even really known Sam. Had been more confused than anything when he’d run out.

But now . . .

He tore his eyes away from the door and stared down at the crumpled sheets. How could it have gone wrong again? How could it have gone so fucking wrong so fucking fast?

He brought his knees up to his chest and huddled there, trying to tell himself that it was ok. That it didn’t matter. That Sam was just another customer who had finally gotten up the nerve to fuck him and that was that.

He’d always been a pretty good liar.

But not even he was good enough to lie his way through the hurt and anger that was already forming this time.


	9. Chapter 9

This time around it only took them an hour to come for him.

Dean, already dressed and waiting, was up and moving before Eagon had even fully stepped inside the room.

He was through the door and into the hallway first, moving so fast that he had to stop and wait for Eagon to catch up.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Eagon said once they were walking side by side. “Just can’t stay out of the principal’s office, can you?”

Dean continued forward, choosing to ignore the taunting question.

Eagon, however, was unfazed by the silence. “So, what punishment do you think you’re gonna rate this time? Do I get to mark that pretty little back of yours some more? Or do I get to drag you back down into the basement?”

Dean knew he was being baited. And he had to admit - it was working. It was taking everything he had not to turn around and just smash the guy’s mouth in. But he wasn’t an idiot, despite what Eagon seemed to think.

There was no way in hell he was going to make the first move and give Eagon a reason to go psycho on him. So he focused instead on tuning Eagon out, concentrating only on getting one foot in front of the other.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you’re just scared?”

When Dean still didn’t answer, Eagon dropped a hand on his shoulder, spinning and pushing him so that he found himself with his back literally against the wall. He raised his eyes, only to see Eagon looming above him, perilously close.

“I’ll tell you what,” the big man said as he leaned in. “Why don’t you give me a little kiss and I’ll put in a good word for you with Fagan? How’s that?”

Dean bit down on his lip. He wasn’t going to say anything. He wasn’t going to . . .

But his mouth was opening of its own accord, and the words were out almost before he even realized it.

“As tempting as that offer is, Eagon . . . I just don’t think so. Why don’t you try me again when . . . um . . . hell freezes over?”

On a scale of one to ten, Dean would have rated the cut down a four. Definitely not one of his best. But Eagon . . . the way Eagon was acting you would have thought it had been off the Richter scale. His face turned red and his breathing quickened into near-panting, eyes bulging until they seemed they would pop right out of their sockets.

Too angry to speak, Eagon could only manage a choked, “You . . . ” as his hands clawed in midair.

But Dean didn’t even flinch. He knew he was safe. For the time being anyway. Here, in public, with cameras everywhere, Eagon wouldn’t dare. So he just let Eagon sputter until there was nothing left for him to say or do but to get them moving again.

Dean knew he shouldn’t have said it. He knew that he would probably end up regretting it later. But still . . . it had felt so damn good.

The feeling of triumph was short-lived however, and by the time he reached Fagan’s office, there wasn’t a trace of it left.

Fagan, as always, was sitting behind his desk, and for a brief moment Dean wondered if the man and the piece of furniture weren’t physically connected. Wondered if Fagan wasn’t really some half-man, half-desk monster

He shook the image out of his head and sat down in the perpetual empty chair while Eagon went to stand by the wall.

All the players are in their places. Let the games begin.

Fagan gave the barest of smiles and said, “Dean.”

“Sir, if you could just get to the punishment, please,” Dean said.

Fagan sat back, his smile widening. “You expect to get punished?”

Dean almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. Of course he expected to get punished. But even the prospect of pain or endless time trapped in the concrete coffin wasn’t doing much to frighten him right now. He was just too damn shell-shocked by what had happened with Sam to feel much of anything. Right now all he wanted to do was get this part of the night over with and go back to his room.

And sulk.

Or hit a wall.

Or get nice and stumbling drunk.

“Well,” he finally replied. “Sam left in a hurry. And I’m here. Two plus two, sir.”

“I see,” Fagan said. “Yes. We’ll discuss punishment in a moment, But first, I want you to tell me what happened tonight.”

“How much did you see?” Dean asked.

“Almost everything. I saw that you were finally intimate.”

“Yeah. Intimate,” Dean repeated dully. Fagan and his niceties. How the man could run a brothel and be so proper would always be beyond him. “Well, then you saw it all,” he added.

“No, Dean. I want you to tell me what happened. All of it.”

Dean sighed, running a hand across his face to give himself a minute to pull it together. “He . . . right afterwards . . . after we were intimate, he got this look on his face like, like what we’d done was a horrible mistake. I tried to talk to him, to get him to tell me what was wrong. To get him to stay, but he was . . . he was so freaked. He just ran out.”

“Did he say anything?”

Shaking his head no, Dean said, “Just that he shouldn’t have. And he told me not to touch him.”

“I see.” Fagan nodded as if he really did understand what had happened in that room.

Dude, if you know, tell me. Please.

“Dean, do you have any idea why he would have reacted that way?”

Dean took a moment before answering. He thought most of Sam’s issues came from what had happened to his friend, Jess. Dean couldn’t even imagine what a total mindfuck that must have been. But even so, that couldn’t possibly explain everything, could it? The strangeness that was Sam Keller? And it didn’t really explain why Sam had just treated him like the gum that you find stuck to your shoe.

He finally shook his head. “No, sir.” Despite what Sam had done to him, the man’s problems and his past were none of Fagan’s business.

“I see,” Fagan said, templing his fingers under his chin. “You’re awfully quiet today, Dean. Not your usual smug, sarcastic self. Is something wrong?”

“No, sir. I’m just tired. And I just wanna get this over with.”

Fagan studied him before turning to the big man leaning against the wall. “Eagon.”

Eagon stepped forward, so eager he was nearly panting. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment?”

“Huh?”

“You can wait right outside. Now, please.”

Eagon just stood there, looking like a kid who’d just had his candy taken away from him without even being told why.

“Eagon!” Fagan snapped. “Go outside.”

With a brisk nod and a tightening of his jaw, Eagon finally did just that. But not before shooting tiny daggers of hatred in Dean’s direction.

Fagan did not speak, did not move, until Eagon was out of the room and the door was firmly shut. Then he placed his hands flat on the desk and said, “Dean, come here.”

Dean looked around. He was only a few feet away from the man. Where was he supposed to go?

As if reading his mind, Fagan said, “Right here,” indicating a spot next to his own chair.

Figuring that the man was about to proposition another blowjob, Dean gave a minute shake of his head. “I really don’t think . . . ” he started.

“Come here,” Fagan said, making the words an order.

Sighing, Dean stood and walked around the desk to stand next to him.

“Kneel down.”

Every cuss word Dean knew was running through his mind as he sank down to his knees. He fixed his eyes on the ground and tried to prepare himself for whatever was to come. He’d refuse if Fagan gave him a choice. And if he didn’t give him a choice . . . well, he’d done worse.

Without preamble, Fagan took hold of his chin and lifted his head until he was looking straight into the older man’s eyes.

“Dean, tell me the truth. Are you starting to care about this boy? About Sam?”

The question was so unexpected that Dean faltered, blanking on the answer. “I . . .”

“The truth.”

Fagan’s tone, although demanding, was not without its touch of warmth, and Dean found himself responding to it.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he said. “And I thought . . . I was starting to think, that he felt the same way.”

He glared at Fagan defiantly, practically daring the man to make fun of him for the admission.

But tonight was to be a night of surprises. If anything, Fagan appeared a little saddened by what he’d just heard.

“He hurt you tonight.”

There wasn’t any point in answering. It hadn’t been a question.

The hand that had been holding Dean’s chin was now resting against his cheek, caressing it slightly. It felt too warm and too damp and he had to fight the urge to scrabble away from it.

“A word of advice, Dean - tread carefully around that boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just . . . be careful. You may not believe this, but I am quite fond of you. I don’t want to see you get hurt any worse.”

Dean, too flabbergasted to say anything, could only stare at the large man. This same man, who up until five minutes ago, he would have sworn didn’t have a kind bone in his body.

“Well,” Fagan said as he pulled his hand away. “Why don’t you have Eagon escort you back to your room?”

Dean shook his head as if trying to clear it. “That’s it? You’re not going to punish me?”

Fagan chuckled. “Not tonight. Now go before I change my mind.”

And Dean, not being one to ever look a gift horse in the mouth, was up and sprinting out the door before Fagan could do just that.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took Dean three days to get the smell of Sam off of his skin.

Yet no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, getting him out of his mind was a different matter entirely.

He told himself, standing hunched over the lounge’s bar and nursing a glass of what could be mistaken for vodka, but was in reality water, that tonight was the night he was going to forget about Sam. Tonight was the night that Sam Keller was going to become persona non grata.

He figured if he said it enough, whether out loud or just mimed it in his head, that eventually it would become the truth.

He had just begun chanting the litany in his head when the muted sounds of conversation caused him to stiffen.

God, they were here already.

That could only mean one thing - showtime.

Holding his glass in a death grip, he lifted his head and turned around. When he saw who was walking through the doorway, his grip tightened so much that he thought he was going to crush the glass right into his palm.

Dean’s first, instinctual thought was that it couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t. He’d been thinking about Sam too much and was now seeing him everywhere. Turning thought into hallucination.

But there was no mistaking Sam for anyone else. There never would be.

He turned around, frantically searching for a place to hide. Maybe it wasn’t too late to dive behind the bar?

Before he could make any move, a hand was settling gently on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Sam said softly from behind him.

Dean cursed under his breath. He shook Sam’s hand off and tried to stalk away, stopping short when he realized that somehow Sam had gotten in front of him and was now blocking his path.

“I know you must be so mad at me,” Sam said. “But if you could just hear me out.”

Oh God. Sam was doing that thing with his voice where it was all pleading and breathy and he was looking at him with those soulful puppy-dog eyes of his.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been damn hard to stay mad at him when he looked like that.

But not this time. This time it was pretty damn easy.

“Mmm . . . don’t think so,” Dean said, already looking for another escape route.

“Dean, please . . . ”

“Sam,” he said, returning his gaze to him. “Go away.”

“I can explain what happened.”

“Get the fuck away from me.”

“Please,” Sam pleaded. One hand snaked out and clutched at Dean’s arm. “Let me just say what I have to say. And then . . . if you don’t ever want to see me again, then fine. I’ll walk away and I’ll never bother you again.”

Dean pulled his arm away. Voice rising, he said, “I really don’t think you should touch me right now.”

Before Sam could reply, a burly man appeared at their side. Danny. Dean knew that he was particularly protective of the companions. Probably had something to do with the fact that he was carrying on an affair with one of them.

“Is there a problem here?”

Dean thought about lying and saying that Sam had attacked him, giving Danny no choice but to kick his ass out. But that wouldn’t be right and it wasn’t the way he needed to handle things.

Dean sighed. “No. There isn’t. Just got a little excited, that’s all.”

Danny regarded them both for a while, obviously suspicious, but eventually he nodded and walked away.

“Thank you,” Sam said.

“Why are you here?”

“I need to explain what happened the other night. I think if we just talk . . . ”

“You want to talk?” Dean asked, holding his glass in one hand and poking at Sam’s chest with the other. “Fine. But you listen first.”

Sam seemed relieved. “Ok. Yeah,” he said softly.

Dean stopped, unsure. Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to lay it all out?

“Do you have any idea what you did that night?”

Apparently he was.

“I left,” Sam said, the sadness broadcast loud and clear in his voice. “And I shouldn’t have . . . ”

Dean cut him off. “I slept with you, Sam!”

Despite what Dean felt was a huge declaration, Sam just stood watching him, brows drawn together in confusion as if waiting for more.

Frustrated, Dean asked, “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“I guess I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Fine. You want to hear it?” Dean asked, flinging his hands up in the air and sloshing some water on himself in the process. “I’m not gay. I like girls. Not guys.” Then he paused, and took a breath, speaking more slowly, quietly. “But I like you.”

When Dean saw Sam’s eyes light up with the beginnings of understanding, he nodded firmly. “Yeah. I like you. And it freaks the hell out of me. But I’ve been handling things pretty well, I thought. But the other night? When I realized what was going to happen? Sam, I was as nervous as a virgin on prom night.”

“Oh God. ”

“And then it was so amazing and you were amazing and I thought . . . you know, things are going to be ok. And then you looked at me like I was some kind of leper and you walked out on me.”

“Dean . . . ”

“You left me there. You left me there like I was nothing but garbage.” He spit out the words, feeling the anger and the hurt as if they were brand new all over again. “Every night for six months now, I’ve slept with anybody who’s had enough money to pay for the privilege. But the other night? With you? That was the first time I’ve ever felt like a whore.”

And with that, there was nothing else to say. He turned on his heel, and walked away, intent on getting as far away from Sam as possible.

But Sam ran to him, and grabbing onto his arm, spun him around so that they were facing each other.

“What the fuck?” he asked, trying to shake free of Sam’s grip.

“Let me just say what I came here to say. And then, if you never want to see me again - I’ll completely understand. I won’t bother you anymore.”

Dean, all his emotions pushed up to eleven, trembled against the hand still clutching his arm. He didn’t understand why, but he felt he owed Sam at least that much. “Fine. Go,” he bit out.

“I . . . I’m sorry.”

Rolling his eyes, he said, “Yeah, right. See ya,” before starting to turn around.

“Wait. Wait,” Sam said quickly while tightening his grip. Dean stopped, but stared down at Sam’s hand with a look of such venom that not even Sam could misinterpret. Sam let go of him, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Ok. When I told you about Jess, I wasn’t entirely honest with you.”

“Gee, what a surprise.”

“Jess was more than just a friend. He was my partner. We were . . . we were in love.”

That was enough of a sucker punch that Dean lost his hold on his anger for a moment. Eyes wide with surprise, he asked, “Why . . . why didn’t you tell me?”

“To be honest, I’m not really sure. I guess maybe I felt it was something that I needed to keep for myself.”

“It would have explained a lot,” Dean muttered.

“That night,” Sam continued. “Right after we . . . ”

“Were intimate?” Dean finished for him with a sad grin.

“Um . . . yeah. That’s when I think I finally realized just exactly how I feel about you.” He paused, maybe for effect, maybe for the courage to say it. “Dean, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Dean sucked in a breath, feeling his world shift crazily underneath his feet.

“And that scared the hell out of me,” Sam said. “And then I thought of Jess and I guess . . . I guess I felt like I was betraying him somehow. And I got scared. And I ran.”

Still reeling from the word ‘love’, a feeling that he himself had been skirting on the edge of for days now, Dean shook his head to try and focus. “None of this explains why you’re here,” he said.

“Don’t you see, Dean? I was wrong. About everything. Jess is gone. And I have to move on with my life. All this time, I’ve been punishing myself. Punishing myself for living while he didn’t get to. But I don’t have to do that anymore.”

“Sam, I . . . ”

Tears welled up in Sam’s eyes as he said, “It took me these three days to truly realize that Jess would’ve wanted me to be happy. And you make me happy, Dean.”

Now Dean understood. And the understanding washed away the anger with the strength of a tidal wave. Now that he understood, he wanted nothing more than to smile and fall into Sam’s arms and kiss his tears away.

But even tidal waves don’t wash everything away.

And no matter how much he might want to just forgive and forget - he couldn’t.

And the fact that he couldn’t tore his insides apart like nothing ever had.

“Sam. Look, I . . . I’m really sorry about what happened to Jess. About what happened to you. But the fact is . . . I don’t know if I can just forget what happened.”

“Dean If this is about punishing me . . . ”

“No, Sam. It’s not like that. I just don’t think you’re ready for this right now. Maybe I’m not either. I mean look at us. We’re both pretty screwed up. I think we both just need some time apart, you know? To think about things. Sort things out.”

The way Sam was looking at him now - he had never seen the younger man look more vulnerable or afraid. “Dean, you have to give me another chance. You have to.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling the weight of his own tears. “But if you care about me like you say you do, then you’ll do this for me.”

And this time, when he turned away and walked away, there was no hand to hold him in place. No tall, lean body blocking his path.

Not even when a huge part of him prayed that there would be.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam was halfway home before he realized that Dean had never been given any of his messages nor had they ever exchanged numbers, and that therefore Dean had no way to get a hold of him.

He spun the car around and sped back to the Palace like a man possessed, his only thought to get there. It was imperative that Dean have a way to reach him - if and when he decided to forgive him.

No.

Not if.

When.

Dean would forgive him. Sam couldn’t allow himself to believe anything different.

He knew that he had messed up badly, had wounded Dean deeply, and he didn’t begrudge Dean the time he needed. But down in the recesses of his heart, Sam could only believe that Dean would forgive him and come back to him. Because now that he had admitted to himself that he was falling in love with the man, he really couldn’t imagine things ending like this.

Once back at the Palace, he rushed back to the lounge only to see that he was too late and that Dean was no longer downstairs.

Anger surged into life within him, spreading at the thought that Dean was in that room with someone else. The thought of another person touching Dean, kissing him - fucking him - was almost too much to bear.

Even as the anger coursed through him, he recognized it for the useless emotion that it was. Feeling it would accomplish nothing but to drive him insane.

So instead, he tried to focus on deciding his next move. He still had to find a way to get his number to Dean.

Looking around, he caught sight of the bouncer that had interrupted them earlier. The man was standing in a darkened corner, trying to appear unobtrusive, which was almost laughably impossible considering how huge the guy was.

Sam remembered how the man had looked at them, how he’d looked at Dean specifically, like he had really wanted to protect him. Like he cared.

Decision made, he approached the bouncer. “Hi there. Um . . . I’m Sam. I was here earlier. Maybe you remember me? I was talking to Dean?”

The man looked him up and down, face impassive save for a slight shine of disgust in the eyes. “Yeah, I remember you.”

“I was wondering if you could pass something along to Dean for me.”

“And what would that be?”

“My phone number,” he said. Then, feeling the need to clarify, he continued. “See, Dean and I are . . . well, we’re . . . ” He paused, not entirely sure how much he wanted to reveal to this stranger. He finally settled for, “Well, I’m here a lot. And I need to make sure he knows how to get a hold of me if he decides to.”

“Seemed to me like Dean wasn’t real happy with you. So why would he want this?” the man asked, indicating the piece of paper Sam was now holding in his hand.

“Look, he doesn’t have to call if he doesn’t want to. It’s just a number.”

The big man stared at him. He appeared to be considering.

Sam schooled his features to appear as sincere and innocent as possible. “Please? It’s just a number.”

The man took the piece of paper from Sam’s hand and stuffed it into his own pockets. “I’ll show it to him. If he wants it, he gets it. If he doesn’t, you’re s.o.l., buddy.”

Sam thanked him, knowing that this was as good as he was going to get. Then he turned and reluctantly walked back out the door and into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the next few days, Sam took his cell phone with him everywhere - to bed, to the bathroom, to class. Everywhere he was, it was there too, until it became so familiar that it felt like just another appendage.

After the first week passed with no call from Dean, Sam began to get nervous; his well-constructed wall of denial showing signs of cracking.

At the start of the second week, the wall began to crumble and doubts and fears began to seep through the holes.

He stopped going to school, stopped taking calls from his friends, stopped anything that resembled living a life because he couldn’t concentrate on anything but waiting for that phone call.

By the middle of the second week he was going through life’s daily routines on autopilot. Showering, eating, sleeping were done only because they had to be. The rest of the time he sat in front of the tv, watching movies that he knew Dean would get a kick out of, phone handy and ready at his side and wondering if he shouldn’t just go down to the Palace and force Dean to talk to him.

He was so out of it that when his mother called to invite him to dinner, he actually accepted, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t think of a suitable excuse fast enough.

Not that he didn’t love his parents, because he did. It was just that most times he found it easier just to avoid them and pretend they were nice, normal parents like everyone else seemed to have.

His mother, Gloria Keller, a former beauty queen/model, had the misfortune of marrying a man who was more concerned about how beautiful she looked on his arm than about loving her. She had turned to booze and pills very quickly into her marriage. By the time Sam had come along, his mother had metamorphosed into a boozy wreck, seemingly only able to function at gala events, fund raisers or parties.

Then there was Alton Keller. A man born into so much money that he would never have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to. But he did, tirelessly, constantly, at the expense of seeing and knowing his family. He was opinionated, close-minded and stubborn. A stern, forbidding man, he was more untouchable icon than father or husband.

Sam had never known a mother who soothed away boo-boos or who baked cupcakes for the bake sale. And he had never known a father who helped him with this homework or showed him the proper way to shave.

And now here he was, at the end of the second week, back at his old home, and wishing he was anywhere but. So far things had been par for the course at the Keller household. After a strained dinner full of awkward silences, Gloria had excused herself from the table, bent to kiss her son goodnight on the cheek and then, complaining of a headache, retired upstairs.

Sam was then left to sit with his father in the study, watching him smoke a cigar and listening to him drone on and on about what was wrong with the world today.

It was no wonder that his thoughts kept drifting away from his father and kept landing on Dean.

He thought about how things with Dean had crept up on him. How they had started that first night as a casual interest and nothing more. How they had morphed into a need to protect Dean from harm. How they had morphed again into a friendship, then into a spark of lust, and then into a combination of all of it. Things with Dean had grown, blossomed, almost unbeknownst to him until . . . until the day that he had walked away from Dean, had left him lying there all alone; discarded. It was only after that awful moment that he had truly begun to understand what he and Dean had grown into.

He had told Dean that he was falling in love with him. But the truth was, he was pretty damn sure that he’d fallen long ago.

“Samuel!”

The deep voice bellowing out his name pulled Sam from his reverie. Wistfully, he straightened, thoughts of Dean breaking and scattering until they were lost to him.

“Yes, Father?” he asked.

“Were you even listening to me at all?”

There was no point in lying about it. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “What were you saying?”

“I was asking you about school. I asked how things were going.”

Sam had been hoping to avoid this subject, although he knew his father would get to it eventually. “Not that great, actually. I may just take the rest of the semester off and start again in the fall.”

“I see,” Alton said, saying it in a way that indicated that he most definitely did not see at all.

“It’s just, I’ve got a lot of things on my mind right now and I can’t seem to concentrate on school.”

“And the things that you have on your mind - would any of them happen to be that boy that got himself killed?”

Sam bristled at the way that his father talked about Jess but he managed not to react. Comments like this were nothing new to him and he was just too wrung out for a fight. “No, Father. Jess has nothing to do with it.”

“Well, does it have anything to do with the money that you asked me for?”

“Yeah, about that. I meant to tell you. I won’t be needing that money after all.”

Alton inhaled deeply from the cigar. “And why is that?”

“I was going to use it to help a . . . a friend. But my friend doesn’t want it.”

“Oh?”

“He sees it as charity and he’s not real big on accepting charity.”

“How commendable. So this is a male friend?”

Sam tensed, tried to tell himself not to get defensive. It was only a question. A possibly innocent question. “Yes, he’s a guy.”

“Is it one of your homosexual friends?”

Oh God . . . it was starting. “Father,” he warned.

“I just don’t understand why someone with so much potential, such a bright future, would throw it all away on those sick individuals. Why can’t you find a nice girl to settle down with? Why must you always gravitate toward them?”

“Father! I’m a homosexual,” he said, only vaguely aware that his voice was rising. “Right here. Your own son.”

“No, Sam.”

“Oh my God. How many times do we have to have this conversation?”

“As many times as it takes for you to realize that you are not one of them.”

“I’m not?”

“No, Sam.”

“So when I kiss men . . . when I sleep with men, I’m doing what? Experimenting?”

“Samuel, watch your mouth.”

“Father . . . ”

“You are not one of them. You are confused, easily influenced.”

“Father, for the last time, I am not confused. Jess did not corrupt me with his wily, homosexual ways. And neither has Dean. He’s actually straight. If anything, I’m corrupting him.”

“Dean? Is that his name?”

“Does it matter? God, why is it so hard for you to just admit that I’m gay?”

“If you would just let me help you. There are places we can go to get you help. To get these delusions out of your head.”

Just then the familiar ring of Sam’s cell phone sounded loudly through the study.

Ignoring his father, he grabbed it out of his pocket and looked at the number displayed on the screen.

He didn’t recognize it.

His heart did somersaults in his chest at the thought that it might be Dean at last.

“Sam?”

“I have to take this, Father. I’m sorry,” he whispered as he stood up from his chair and walked quickly out of the room, eyes never once leaving the phone.

He flipped the phone open as he walked, wanting to get as far out of his father’s earshot as possible.

Holding the phone to his ear, he managed to utter a breathless, “Hello?”

“Sam?”

“Dean?”

A still silence was his only answer.

He waited, breath held, letting the silence stretch. Dean had made the phone call. Dean was the one calling the shots here.

It didn’t take long for the silence to grow too long to bear, however. Just when he was about to say something, anything, to break it, Dean spoke first.

“I miss you.”

The words were heaven and nirvana all at once and Sam smiled the smile of the giddy, of the truly grateful. He wasn’t even aware that he had fallen against the wall and had sunk to the ground, gripping the phone so tight in his hand that this knuckles turned white. “I miss you too. I miss you so much.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh God, yeah.” He paused, took a deep breath, then dared to ask, “Dean, does this mean . . . does this mean we might be ok?”

Dean’s voice poured over him like honey. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it does. But, Sam . . . things can’t be the way they were before. Coming in second to Jess . . . I can’t do that anymore. I don’t expect you to forget him. I don’t want you to forget him. But . . . ”

“No, Dean. It won’t be like that anymore.”

“And no more lies. Or half-truths. We have to be honest with each other from now on. Both of us.”

“I can do that,” Sam said. “If you just give me a chance to prove it to you; I can do that. ”

“Well, you have it, Sam.”

“Dean, I need to see you. Can I see you?”

“It’s late, Sam. Let’s wait til tomorrow.” There was a pause, interrupted only by the crackle of static, then, “Then you can have me all night.”

Sam groaned, suddenly, achingly, hard against his jeans. “But . . . ”

“I have to go. I just wanted to tell you that.”

“Thank you.”

“So you’ll be here? Tomorrow?”

The slight tremor in Dean’s voice, the fear barely hidden behind the question, caused Sam’s heart to clench in his chest. It hurt, knowing that he had done that to Dean, that he had planted that seed of uncertainty there. “Dean, nothing could keep me away.”

“Ok, then,” Dean said, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight.”

He pushed himself up to a standing position. There were so many thing he wanted to say, so many things he needed to say.

But they had to wait.

Besides, in less than twenty four hours, he’d be saying them in person.

He could wait.

“Goodnight, Dean.”


	11. Chapter 11

Fagan stared at the monitors and watched as the scene before him unfolded. Usually, he had people to do this for him, people that would sit and monitor the activity in every room. People that made sure that everything was going as it should, that no customers were taking it upon themselves to carve up the companions.

Usually.

But tonight was an exception.

Tonight Sam Keller was once again gracing their premises and that meant that Fagan had to watch every detail of his and Dean’s reunion.

On the screen, the two young men stood facing each other for a brief, awkward moment until they both stepped forward into a grasping embrace.

Like watching a silent movie, their mouths moved yet produced no sound.

Not that Fagan really needed sound. He had a fairly good idea what was being said - sorry’s and promises to never again hurt the other. The usual things lovers say to one another after a huge fight.

He watched as they ran out of things to say, began to kiss.

He nearly brought a hand up to the screen but caught himself in time to settle it in his lap.

Dean Winchester.

In all the years he’d been doing this job, he’d never met anyone else like him. When Dean had walked through his door all those months ago, he’d thought he was looking upon an angel. An angel dressed in jeans and a leather jacket and a wary look in his eyes, but an angel nonetheless. And he knew he’d hit the jackpot when he’d heard Dean’s story of desperation. The kid would have moved heaven and earth to save his father.

Or sacrificed anything.

It was at that moment that Fagan had decided that Dean would be perfect for the Palace. Someone so beautiful, with that aura of desperation that just clung to them like a cloud . . . well, Fagan knew men and women both would pay any amount of money to possess him, even if for just a little while.

Of course Dean hadn’t turned out to be quite what he’d expected. He’d turned out to be a proud, defiant young man, both sarcastic and stubborn. It had been a challenge and a pleasure to try and control him.

On the monitor, he could see that Sam and Dean were moving toward the bed now, still wrapped around each other, kissing passionately the entire way.

He watched as they fell on the bed, shed their clothes. No penetration this time, just fellatio, each taking their turn at pleasing the other, taking it slow.

And then finally, when it was all over, they simply lay entwined in each other’s arms, talking, smiling lazy smiles.

He let an uncharacteristic curse word slip from his mouth. So they were happy after all. And just when he was beginning to think that maybe the Sam Keller problem would disappear. He should have guessed it wouldn’t be that easy.

With a long-suffering sigh he turned away from the monitor and picked up the phone next to him. He dialed and waited through two rings before it was picked up.

“Sir, it’s Fagan.”

He waited.

Listened.

“Yes, Sir. Sam is here.” A pause. “With Dean, yes.”

Listened.

“Are you certain, Sir? No, no of course.”

A pause.

“I’ll speak with him tonight.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a good, solid twenty-four hours, Dean had been so nervous he’d thought he was going to throw up. A huge part of him was convinced that Sam would not show up and that he’d be left hanging again.

He needn’t have worried. Sam had been the first one through the lounge entrance.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam whispered into his ear.

It was the seventh time that Sam had said it. The fourth since they’d gotten up to the room. Not that Dean was counting or anything.

“Sam, it’s ok,” he mumbled against Sam’s broad chest.

“No, it’s not.” Sam pulled himself away, keeping Dean at arm’s length. “Jesus, what you must have been thinking. For me to leave you like that. I can’t believe I hurt you like that.”

The last thing Dean wanted to do was relive the stark feeling of abandonment from when Sam had walked away. He shook his head, pulled Sam closer. “Hey, it’s ok. I forgave you, remember?”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched upward; the beginnings of a smile. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“I’m not gonna let you down ever again.”

“I know that. Why do you think I called you back? And hey, it goes both ways, you know. You’ve got my back. I’ve got yours. We watch out for each other.”

Finally, a full smile. Dean surged forward, rising up on tiptoe, and kissed that smiling mouth. And it was so good, so easy, so . . . right, that it was almost a scary thing. To think that one person could have so much influence over everything.

Sam pulled back. “We have a lot of things to talk about.”

Dean nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah, we do.”

Sam nodded too, a split second before they both fell at each other again, this kiss a little hungrier than the last.

This time when they broke apart, definitely breathless, they were only a few feet from the bed. Dean glanced toward it. “Make-up sex, then talk?”

But Sam’s face had grown serious. “Dean, yesterday, on the phone, you said no more lies. No more half-truths.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I wasn’t entirely honest with you before.”

Dean felt his heart plummeting somewhere to the vicinity of his shoes. Jesus, what else could there possibly be? “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I told you I was falling in love with you. Truth is, I’m already in love with you. I didn’t realize it right away. But these past two weeks, waiting for you to call? That’s when it hit me. How much I really care about you. How much my life would suck if you weren’t in it.”

Dean suddenly felt uncomfortable under Sam’s too-penetrating gaze. “Sam, I . . . ”

“It’s ok. You don’t have to say anything. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t feel the same way. I just wanted you to know.”

“It’s not that. It’s . . . I’m not sure what I feel, actually. I do know that whatever it is, it’s pretty damn strong. Otherwise, there’s no way in hell the Winchester pride would have let me call you back.”

“Really?” Sam asked, smile firmly back in place. “You care about me too?”

Dean rolled his eyes, grinned. “Like you didn’t already know.”

With a hint of tease in his voice, Sam said, “It’s nice to hear it though.”

“I care about you, Sam. A lot. A whole hell of a lot.”

“Yeah, definitely nice to hear.” Sam placed one hand on the back of Dean’s neck, rubbing it gently. “So where were we?”

The touch, so incredibly seductive in its simplicity, had Dean on the edge of purring. “Make-up sex. Then talk,” he said, unconsciously using the smoky voice that turned most people into jelly.

Sam shuddered, gave a low growl before maneuvering them to the bed, where they both fell on it in a wild tangle. “Got it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the rhythmic tapping that woke him.

Dean opened bleary eyes, cursing himself for falling asleep with his contacts in. He turned, still more asleep than awake, half-expecting to see Sam curled up on the other side of the bed. Disappointed, he remembered that Sam had already left. He glanced at the clock on the night stand. Sam had kissed him goodbye and left more than two hours ago.

The memory elicited a blissfull smile before he realized that the tapping had been someone knocking on the door.

He frowned and sat up. Who the hell could be knocking? It certainly wasn’t Eagon - he would have been in the room already. So who the hell?

The door opened just as he was grabbing his pants and shrugging them on.

Even with the room steeped in darkness it was easy enough to determine that it was not Eagon standing in the doorway. And it was most definitely not Eagon’s voice that told him to turn on the light.

If Dean didn’t know better, he would have sworn it was Fagan. But Fagan never came to the rooms. Ever.

He turned on the bedside lamp as ordered, then squinted against its light. By the time his eyes had adjusted, he could easily see that it was indeed Fagan walking toward him. And apparently he wasn’t connected to that desk in his room.

Will wonders never cease?

He looked around then, searching for the inevitable Eagon, but the henchman was nowhere in sight.

Puzzled, and wondering if he was still actually asleep and dreaming, he said, “Fagan?”

The big man nodded in affirmation before sitting down in the closest chair. He indicated with a wave of his hand that Dean should do the same.

“Dean.”

Dean backed up and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but why the hell are you here?”

“Now how in the world could I possibly take that the wrong way?”

“I just meant, that you never come into our rooms. You always have that freak of nature get us.”

“I wanted to talk to you. One on one.”

“This must be really important then, huh?”

Fagan nodded and then, without any preamble to soften the impact, he said, “Pack your bags, Dean. You’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

Hearing those words was like having ice-cold water splashed on him. He was suddenly awake, wide-eyed, panting. “What?”

Fagan repeated the words, albeit more slowly, as if speaking to an idiot.

Panic rendered rationality next to impossible. The only coherent thought that his brain seemed capable of coming up with was that he’d fucked up. Somehow he’d fucked up so bad that Fagan wasn’t even giving him the chance to right his wrong.

Dean stumbled to the floor next to Fagan. He rose to his knees, hands grasping the chair’s arm and began to beg. “Fagan, wait, please.”

Fagan shook his head, placed one hand on top of Dean’s. “Dean, it’s not . . . ”

How could he have messed up so badly and not even realized it?

“Please, whatever I did, I can fix it. I can make it better. Please.”

“Dean . . . ”

“Give me another chance. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Please.”

He was peripherally aware that he wasn’t just begging. He was outright groveling. And babbling, to boot. And he didn’t care. If he could just make Fagan listen, give him another chance . . .

“Dean! Stop! Listen to me!” Fagan’s hand squeezed his, hard. That, combined with Fagan’s uncharacteristic shout, finally made Dean settle. “This is not a punishment. You haven’t done anything wrong. We’re letting you go because your debt is now considered paid in full.”

Dean opened his mouth. Shut it when the words wouldn’t come. Tried again. “But how? Why? I’m not even close to the year.”

“The people that run this place have decided that you’re paid up. They didn’t explain to me why. They just told me to pass the message along to you.”

Dean swallowed hard, afraid to ask the next question. “And my dad?”

“Your father will be safe. Neither one of you will owe the Palace anything.”

“But why?”

“Dean. Have you ever heard the expression ‘curiosity killed the cat’? Or how about this one: ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’?”

At Dean’s dazed nod, Fagan continued. “Then don’t ask why. Look at it as manna from heaven. And don’t question it.”

Dean settled back on his haunches, trying to believe, wanting to believe. “So this is really it? It’s all over?”

“Yes.”

And then it clicked and he did believe. Fagan was not lying. This was not some sick game. It was happening - he was finally free. Breathless, voice shaking, he said, “I don’t know how to thank you, Fagan.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m only the messenger.”

“I thought you hated me. But you came up here to tell me yourself.”

“Now honestly, Dean. Who could possibly hate someone with such a pretty face? I only wanted to tame that wild spirit of yours a little. There’s something about you that makes people want to do that. That’s why you’re so popular. Surely you’ve figured that out by now?”

Dean rubbed a hand across his ‘pretty face.’ “Yeah, I guess I have.” He cracked a hesitant smile, shaking his head as the smile grew wider. “I can’t believe this.”

Fagan stood. “Well, believe it.”

Dean stood up as well and watched as Fagan took a step forward. His plan was to walk the man to the door, thank him again and then start a one man celebration that would likely end with him passed out with a huge grin on his face.

But Fagan stopped moving before he even made it halfway to the door. “Before I go, may I make a suggestion?”

“Um . . . yeah, sure.”

Fagan turned to him, face serious. “Take your father and get as far away from this place as possible. Both of you. Go somewhere nice and bland, without any vice to tempt your father. Go to Ohio. Or Kansas.”

Dean laughed. “Fagan, there’s nothing in Kansas.”

“That’s the point.”

“Not that that’s a bad idea, but . . .”

“But what? What do you have that’s keeping you here?”

Dean shrugged, somehow feeling foolish for even saying it aloud. “There’s Sam.”

“Sam? Dean, you don’t honestly believe that you’ll be able to continue that relationship once you leave here, do you?”

Dean bristled, felt himself go on the defensive. “Maybe. Sam told me that he cares about me.”

“Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t. But think about this, Dean. You’re the man that he pays to have sex with. You are a prostitute and he is your john. How do you think that’s going to translate in the world?”

“We can get past that.”

“Even if you somehow miraculously do, Sam Keller is one of the richest young men in this state. And you?”

“I . . .”

“Where do you think you’re going to fit into his world? Or him in yours?”

When Dean didn’t answer, Fagan continued. “You’re too different, Dean. In this insulated world, it works. In the real world, what chance do you have? Trust me, the best thing to do is to leave. Start over.”

And with that, Fagan walked away.

Dean watched him go, watched the door close behind him. He looked around the room, a room so hated that just the thought of leaving it should have had him shouting for joy.

And yet, Fagan’s words had hit a little too close to home. It would be easy to dismiss them as bullshit, but what if the man was right? Maybe he should go find a nice, safe place for him and his dad. As much as he cared for Sam, their differences were so huge. Practically insignificant in here, out in the real world they might just be insurmountable.

“What a fucking buzzkill,” he murmured.

Feeling overwhelmed, happiness warring with doubt and confusion in his head, he turned to walk into his room; his real room. The one he’d always considered his one safe place.

Once thing was for certain no matter what he decided to do. He had to start on packing.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam Keller was experiencing something akin to nirvana. After drowning in so much misery for so long, he felt like he was finally able to breathe again. And he was finding that without the burden of guilt and regret, he felt, literally, like a man reborn.

He found that he was happy. Truly happy.

But even so, he still shuddered when he thought about how close he’d come to losing Dean for good. And all because of his own pain and fear. Driving away from Dean two nights ago, he had sworn that he would never let that happen again. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that he was completely healed and whole, but he did know that he had somehow gotten to the point where he had beaten most of his demons.

And yet, there was still one thing that he needed to do before he could fully step into what promised to be a new, exciting life with Dean.

And that, he was doing tonight.

He’d already locked his door, closed all the blinds in the apartment and taken his phone off the hook. Now he picked up his cell phone and turned it off before walking into his bedroom and heading for the bed.

Sitting on its corner, he picked up Jess’ picture off the night stand with a quiet sigh. He wanted more than anything to do this properly and properly meaning kneeling in front of Jess’ grave or even standing in front of his urn. But his parents had the urn and they were on the other side of the country.

This was the best that Sam had and this would have to do. He held the picture at an angle, and looking down at Jess’ face, he began to speak.

“Hey, Jess. I, uh . . . hope you can hear me because there’s something I need to tell you. The thing is, I met this guy. Not in the normal boy meets boy way. But I’d better save that story for another time. His name’s Dean. And he’s pretty great. You would like him.” He stopped and mulled over that last statement for a moment. “Yeah, you’d definitely like him,” he finally said with a laugh. “You two would have been trading dirty jokes after ten minutes.

Anyway,” he said, quickly growing sober. “The reason I’m telling you this - I’ve been pretty miserable since you died. Hell, miserable doesn’t even cut it. Losing you almost destroyed me. And for a long time I thought that I’d never be ok again. And now . . . well, I’m not there yet. But I’m getting there. I know you would have wanted me to be happy, Jess. And well, I am. Dean makes me happy.”

He grasped the picture tight, speaking to it earnestly. “But Jess, no matter what happens with Dean, I want you to know that I love you. Til the day I die I’ll love you. And nothing, nobody can ever change that.”

He wiped away a few stray tears, surprised that there weren’t more. Usually when he allowed himself to think of Jess, the waterworks were always in full swing. But this time, he felt strangely at peace.

“I guess that’s it,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know what was happening. I love you, baby.”

And with that, he set the picture down carefully, then picked up his cell and turned it on.

It was time to start living again, one piece of his life at a time.

He called Warren first and apologized for being such a lousy friend for the past couple of weeks.

Not surprisingly, Warren told him he was being an idiot and had nothing to be sorry for. After that it didn’t take long for them to fall into an easy conversation.

When the other call came in, Sam pulled the phone away from his ear to see who it was. His display told him that it was an unknown number. He shrugged. If it was important, they’d leave a message.

He put the phone back to his ear, the mystery call already forgotten.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean cursed under his breath when Sam’s recorded voice came onto the line. He never knew what to say on these things and he always thought he ended up sounding like an idiot.

“Hey, Sam. It’s me. Dean,” he began when he heard the beep. “I was calling with some news. Good news. Great news, actually.”

God, he did sound like an idiot. He rolled his eyes and forced himself to continue. “Um . . . anyway, they let me out. The Palace did. Said my contract is up. So I’m here at my dad’s. We’re just doing some catching up. We need some hardcore bonding time. But I wanted to call you and let you know. And um . . . well, I guess I’ll let you go. I’ll call you in the next couple of days. I . . . uh . . . well, yeah. I’ll just talk to you soon.”

And then, because he felt that he couldn’t hang up without saying it, he added a quiet, “And I miss you.”

He put the phone back in its cradle, just in time for his father to come back into the kitchen from the backyard.

“Talking to somebody?” John Winchester asked.

“I . . . yeah . . . ”

“Anybody I know? That girl you were going out with before? What was her name? Cassie?”

No, Dad. It’s a guy I met while I was working at that brothel. You know, when I was sucking dick so you wouldn’t be killed.

“No, Dad. Not Cassie.”

“Who then?”

“You don’t know them,” he said, suddenly desperate to end this particular conversation. “It’s not important right now, anyway. Tonight it’s just you and me, right?”

“Right.” John smiled, but it melted away within a matter of seconds. Now his face was stone serious, his eyes pained. “I’ve missed you, son.”

“I’ve missed you too, Dad.”

John gave a quick, uncomfortable nod before heading for the door to the backyard. “Well, we’d better get back outside. Those steaks aren’t going to cook themselves.” He stopped and cast a questioning look at Dean. “You still sure you want to eat outside? It’s warmer in here.”

How in the world could he tell his father that after being a virtual prisoner for months, trapped in that claustrophobic room that always seemed to reek of sex, the last thing he wanted to do was to be inside?

The answer was simple. There was no way at all. He would do what he always did - say as little as possible and act as if everything was all right. “Yeah, I’m sure. It’s nice out there.”

John nodded once more, face a casual mask, before stepping back outside. And yet despite this, Dean had the feeling that he hadn’t fooled the man, not one iota.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dinner was good, the beer cold and satisfying. And best of all, father and son had managed to have a conversation that didn’t contain the words Palace or debt. It was so heartbreakingly normal that it almost seemed to be a dream.

Afterward, they sat on their lawn chairs and nursed their beers, content just to stare out at the darkened patio in companionable silence.

That is until John shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “So, Dean . . . how are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean. You know what I’m asking.”

And Dean did know. But at this particular moment, he would rather walk through hell than to delve into his time at the Palace. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“I heard you last night. You were having a nightmare, calling out in your sleep.”

Dean shrugged, trying to appear casual. Trying to pretend he wasn’t aware that he’d woken up in a cold sweat last night, so nauseous he almost threw up all over himself and the bed. “Was I? I don’t remember.”

“Dean . . . ”

Dean looked over at his father, catching his eye in the half-shadows. The worry he saw there caused him to cave just a little. “What can I say, Dad? I guess it’s just gonna take some time, you know.”

John ran a hand across his face, shaking his head. “Jesus, what they must have done to you in there.”

“Can we NOT talk about this? Please? Not now. Maybe not ever?”

“Dean . . . ”

“It’s over, Dad. It’s over. And I’m fine,” he said, somehow turning the words into a plea. “Or I will be. Let it go, cause it’s not something that I really want to talk about with you.”

“Dean, you have to know, that I never wanted that for you. I never wanted you to go through that. Sometimes I think maybe it would have been better if I’d just let them kill me.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Every night, every single night I’d sit here and I’d think about what they were doing to you. About what you were going through. And I hated myself for it. For being so weak. You’re my son. I’m supposed to protect you and I failed so badly.”

Dean could barely see his father’s face, but he could hear the pain in his voice clearly enough. And he hated the thought that he’d put that there. “Dad, I’m not a little kid. You don’t have to protect me,” he said. Then, hoping that it would ease his father’s mind, even just a little, he added, “Besides, it wasn’t always horrible.”

“What do you mean?”

The beer bottle in his hands suddenly became very interesting as he focused his gaze on it. “I mean, there was somebody there.”

“Somebody? Who?”

“Just somebody. Somebody really great. They made things easier.”

“A guy?”

Something about the way those two words were said provoked defiance in Dean. His head shot up. “Yes, Dad. A guy.”

“Well, was it someone who worked there or was it a customer?”

“Does it matter?”

“Answer me, Dean.” And there it was, the tone that brooked no argument. John Winchester would only take so much impudence before he put his foot down. And Dean, grown man that he was, had never stopped responding to his father’s authority.

“It was a customer,” Dean said softly. “And he was the best thing that happened to me in there.”

“Wait a minute,” John said slowly. “The person you were talking to on the phone . . . is that the guy?”

Dean knew the question had been a shot in the dark, but it still was still spooky how well his father had nailed it.

“So what if it was?” he asked, attitude creeping back into his voice.

“Have you lost your mind, son? You’re calling some guy who paid to have sex with you?” John asked, his voice rising. “You actually want to see him again?”

“It’s not like that! You don’t know Sam. He’s different. He cares about me. And yes - I would like to see him again. So?”

“No! I did not raise my son to be some sort of fucking queer!”

“Hey!”

“No! That pervert is not touching you again, do you hear me?”

Dean slammed the beer down on the table in front of him and shot up to his feet. “I don’t understand you! I tell you that I met someone there, a good person. That we care about each other and that he helped me keep my head straight and you freak out! Where was all the caring and concern seven months ago when I told you I was going to be getting it up the ass for a year?”

The solid hit to his face had enough force behind it to knock his head to the side and cause him to stumble. And even though it wasn’t totally unexpected, it still hurt like a bitch.

He brought a hand to his cheek, breath coming fast like a racehorse’s, until the pain got down to a manageable sting.

Then, lifting his head, he looked his father in the eye. In a rough voice, he whispered, “Yeah, ok,” before storming past him and into the house.

An hour later, Dean sat perched on the guest bedroom’s bed, still occasionally rubbing his cheek and wondering at what the hell had happened. He’d never spoken to his father like that before and he couldn’t imagine what had gotten into him to make him do it now.

Sam’s what got into you.

The thought was sudden and unbidden and a moment later his mind dove straight for the gutter. He laughed, shaking his head, and immediately felt a little bit better.

When the door to the room opened up a second later, he clamped down on the laughter and sat up straight and rigid.

“Dean?”

Unsure of what was to come, Dean acknowledged his father only with a hesitant nod.

“Dean, I’m . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

Still hurt, more from the words than from being struck, Dean spat out a bitter, “You think?”

“I’m trying to apologize here, Dean. You caught me off-guard. You have to understand that, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. Recognizing the truth in his father’s words, he let his tone soften. “I didn’t want to tell you like that. Actually, I didn’t want to tell you period.”

“Well, I guess I’m glad you did. But Dean, are you . . .do you think you’re gay?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s not about being gay. It’s about Sam.”

“You care about this guy?”

“Yeah, I do, Dad. But you know what? It doesn’t even matter. We’re moving in a couple of days and that’ll be the end of that.”

“We don’t have to go.”

“Yeah, we do. This city’s turned bad for you. For both of us.”

“Dean, I really am sorry.”

Thinking his father was talking about his still sore cheek, Dean shrugged. “It barely even hurts, Dad.”

“Not just about that. About everything. You know I’m not real good with words, Dean. That was your mother’s department. But I want you to know how much I love you. And how proud I am of you. Nothing you could ever say to me will change that.”

Dean felt his cheeks flush as the words warmed him. While he never for one moment doubted that his father loved him, the times that it had been verbally expressed were few and far between. Words had never been John Winchester’s forte, and Dean had always understood that; after all, they’d never been his forte either. But now, hearing his father tell him that he loved him, even after finding out about Sam, he realized just how badly he’d needed to hear that be said.

He tried to think of some words of his own, something deep and meaningful to let his dad know how much that meant to him. But all he could seem to get past the huge lump in his throat was a quiet, “Thank you, Dad.”

His dad responded by wrapping him up in a brief but tight hug.

“I’d better let you get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning,” John said as he pulled away.

“Ok.”

John gave his shoulder a squeeze before standing up and heading for the door.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, too.”

John’s smile was somehow both sad and content at the same time. “I know, son.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean lay in bed for a long time after his dad had bid him goodnight, just staring up at the darkened ceiling and thinking about Sam.

His first thought after Fagan had told him that he was free had been something along the lines of, “Fuck yeah!” His second thought had been of Sam. In an instant, a hundred wonderful scenarios had flashed through his mind, all of them ending with him and Sam kissing, happy, and away from the confines of the Palace.

But then Fagan had to go screw everything up by introducing reality into his daydreams. And just like that, the joy of being free had been extinguished.

Even now, he couldn’t stop thinking about how badly he wanted to be with Sam, see him, speak to him as a free man. As an equal. And how he would never be able to do any of that.

In a sense, moving to a new state with his father felt like running and hiding, but he didn’t know what else to do. His father needed him and needed to be away from this city. And his own life with Sam was simply too fraught with complications to ever truly work.

He gave a heavy sigh and turned over onto his side. He was so tired of thinking. So tired, period. And even as his eyelids tried to close, he forced them open.

Sleeping meant nightmares. Bad nightmares where faceless strangers held him down and hurt him.

But being awake meant thinking of how he could never be with Sam.

He shifted onto his other side with a frustrated grunt.

It was going to be a long night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cell phone was traitorously quiet and Sam had to tell himself to stop staring at it or it would never ring. Calls always came when you weren’t expecting them. Or so he believed.

Which is why he forced himself to step away from the phone and sit down in front of the tv. Forced himself to turn it on and watch something, anything, to take his mind off the fact that Dean had not called in two days.

If only he’d taken that damn call.

He was pretty sure he’d regret that move even if he lived to be ninety. From now on, he swore to himself, he was going to answer every single phone call no matter what.

When the phone rang halfway into the show that he wasn’t really watching, he all but launched himself across the couch to answer it.

“Hello?” he said as he flipped open the cell and put it to his ear.

“Hey, Sam.”

Oh thank God.

“Dean. Oh, it’s good to hear from you, man.”

“Yeah?”

“I got your message. Is it true, they really just let you go?”

“It’s true. I’m a free man.”

“God, that’s wonderful,” he said, smiling. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“So where are you now? Are you still at your dad’s?”

“No, not there anymore.”

“Ok, so where are you?”

“I’m right outside your door.”

“What?” He couldn’t have heard right. There was no way he could have heard right.

“Ok, not right outside your door. I’m here at your apartment complex. I’m just not sure which one is yours.”

“Dean, how . . . ”

“You told me where you lived remember? See, I do listen when you talk.”

“Dean . . . ”

“So are you going to tell me where you are so people will stop looking at me funny?”

He couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Building 10. Number 1022.”

“Got it. Be right up.”

“Dean, you’re really here? You’re not just shitting me?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“God, I hope not.”

“I’m here.”

“So what’s taking you so long? Get over here already.”

“Easy there, cowboy. Not everyone has giant’s legs like you do.”

“You’re just jealous cause you’re a midget.”

“Oh, that’s gonna cost you.”

Sam was about to reply when he heard a knock at the door. With his heart pounding in his chest he ran to the door and flung it open.

And standing there, backlit by the fading afternoon sun and looking absolutely fucking gorgeous, was Dean.

Sam tried to speak, but his brain was on overload and all he could manage was what sounded suspiciously like a small whimper.

Dean smiled and lowered the cell phone from his ear, closing it with a snap of his hand. “Hey, Sam.”


	13. Chapter 13

Sam closed his own phone and let it slip from his hand, already forgotten.

Then, stepping forward, he wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrist and pulled him into his arms, marveling at how easily the smaller man’s body melded with his own.

He squeezed him until he heard Dean give a choked laugh. “You must be glad to see me or something, huh?”

Sam pulled away, laughing and blushing. Then he placed his hands on either side of Dean’s face and brought him back to him for a fierce kiss.

The feel of Dean’s soft lips against his own, the touch of his Dean’s hand against his back, the scent of him filling his nostrils, all these things were a long-denied heaven to Sam. Heaven, not solely because he was experiencing these things, but because he was experiencing them here, in the light and safety of his apartment and not in the brothel. Because the fact that any of this was happening meant that Dean was truly free.

Sam allowed his hands to travel from Dean’s face down to his broad chest. “You’re really here,” he breathed out.

Grinning up at him, Dean simply said, “Told you.”

“I wish you would have told me you were coming. I would have cleaned up,” Sam said before taking a quick, mortified glance around the apartment.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Oh, you did. You definitely did,” he said as laughter tumbled from him with ease.

The smile never leaving his face, Dean edged out from Sam’s embrace and gave the front door a slight shove with his foot so that it clicked shut. He took a couple of steps into the living room, looking around with frank curiosity. “So this is your place.”

Sam, still feeling amazed that this was actually happening and still needing the physical contact to prove it, stood behind Dean and loosely wrapped his arms around his stomach. Letting his chin rest atop Dean’s shoulder, he said, “Be it ever so humble . . . ”

“It’s nice. But I don’t get it - with the kind of money you have, how come you’re not living in a mansion?”

Sam tightened his grip. He knew the other man was teasing him.

“I told you - it’s not my money. It’s my father’s. Besides, mansions aren’t really my style.”

“Really? Cause they’re not really my style either.” Dean turned his head and for a moment all Sam could see were Dean’s eyes, green as sharp blades of grass. He’d read stories where people ‘fell into each other’s eyes’ - but he’d never before experienced the sensation, had thought it was a phrase that writers liked to use because it sounded romantic. But he sure as hell was experiencing it now.

Then Dean winked, a little sinful, a little naughty, and all thoughts of writers and their prose went out the window. Pretty much all thought went out the window except for one very distinct, strong one, flashing bright in his head like neon.

Kiss this man.

They somehow made it to the couch, fumbling and falling the entire way, landing on it only through sheer luck.

They did not speak again for a very long time, not until they were both gasping for much needed air.

“So it’s really true. They really let you out?” Sam asked. There was still a small part of him that believed that this was all a huge joke, like Ashton Kutcher was going to jump out from behind the couch and laugh and tell him that he’d been punk’d and it was time to say goodbye, that Dean had to go back to the whorehouse now.

“Yeah, they did.”

“Not that I’m complaining, Dean, but why?”

“I really don’t know. Fagan told me that the powers-that-be considered Dad’s debt paid in full. He told me to leave and I left.” Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he narrowed his eyes. “Although, I mean, you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

Sam put his hands up in the air in a show of surrender. “No way. When you told me no, I told my father that I didn’t need the money after all. I swear.”

“I didn’t think it was you. You know what, it doesn’t even matter. I don’t care why it happened, just that it did.”

It was then that Sam noticed the mottled, purple bruise on Dean’s left cheek. Something about the way Dean tilted his head and the way the light hit his face just right . . . and suddenly the bruise was all that Sam could see. His lifted his hand, fingers itching to touch it, to soothe it away. Instead they stayed where they were, frozen in midair. “What is this?”

Dean did touch it, bringing the very tips of his own fingers up to brush against it. “Oh yeah, that. My dad didn’t react too well when I told him about you.”

And just like that, the anger, the pressing need to get up and pummel something into dust, was there. “He hit you?”

“It’s no big deal,” Dean said and shrugged, actually shrugged, as if it really were no big deal. “I sprang it on him out of nowhere. And he apologized right after.”

“He hurt you.”

“Sam, you gotta understand. My dad’s an old-fashioned guy. He figured his son was going to grow up to marry some hot chick and give him like ten grand kids or something.”

“Ten? Wow, you would have been busy,” he said, biting the words out in sarcasm.

“You know what I mean. But he’s trying to understand. He really is.”

Sam literally had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from shooting off a scathing remark about Dean’s father and just how understanding he was. To him, any father that would allow his son to sell his body just to save his own skin, well, that man rated pretty fucking poorly in his book. In fact, if he had to rate the man, he’d put Dean’s father on par with his own father - and that was about as low as anyone could get.

But he knew that saying anything negative about him would only hurt Dean (he obviously hero-worshiped the man), and he would rather cut off a limb than to hurt Dean again.

So he quashed his real thoughts on the matter and managed to come up with an unenthusiastic, “At least he’s trying, I guess.”

Dean nodded, looking grateful for the comment, before shifting his eyes down to his hands, hands that up until a moment ago were relaxed and sitting idly in his lap. Now they twisted and turned, one over the other as if Dean were engaged in some bizarre hand washing ritual. As Sam watched, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Lady Macbeth, sleepwalking in the dark, trying to rid herself of her infernal secrets.

This cannot be good.

“He’s leaving you know,” Dean blurted out. “My dad. In a few days he’s going to move up to Oregon.”

“Oregon?”

“Yeah, he’s got a couple of friends there,” Dean said, his words picking up speed as he talked. “It’s the best thing for him really - to get away from this place. Get a fresh start. In fact I’m going to go up there with him, help him get settled.”

Sam had been right. It wasn’t good at all. “Oh,” he said, voice flat.

Dean’s head shot up, his eyes big and earnest. “But I’ll be back, Sam.”

Sam struggled to find the right words, something supportive, something that would show Dean that he was all right with this. Struggled and failed. “I’ll miss you,” he said miserably.

“Sam. I’ll be back. I swear.”

“Promise?”

“That’s what swearing means, college boy.”

He mustered a small smile and tried again. “Well, I mean, if your dad needs you then of course you should go.”

There, that sounded better. He mentally gave himself a pat on the back.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. A week, tops.”

Sam looked down, saw that Dean’s hands had stilled. “Is this what it felt like for you?” he asked as he placed his own hand atop Dean’s. “Whenever I left you at the Palace. Waiting for me to come back? Is this what it was like?”

Dean nodded, his face thoughtful. “A little. It’s not easy being the one who’s left behind. The one who has to wait.”

“Well, I’ll be counting the days. Literally.”

“Me too.”

“And when you do get back? Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you going to do?” Sam shrugged, trying to make the questions seem casual. “Where are you going to stay?”

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t given it much thought.” Dean leaned in, his fingers catching Sam’s. “Truthfully, this whole freedom thing is a little overwhelming. It’s almost like I have too many choices. I don’t think I even know where to begin.”

“Well, you always have a place to stay here. If you want. I’m not pushing or anything. I’m just putting it out there.”

“I will definitely keep that in mind.”

“Good.”

Dean smiled and nodded briefly before making a show of looking around. “So,” he asked. “I’m here. You’re here. Now what?”

Sam snaked one arm around Dean’s body, encircling his waist, and moved forward. “Now this.”

It began as a feather-soft kiss - tentative and shy. It was almost as if they were new lovers exploring unknown territory. And in a way, Sam supposed that they were.

That uncertainty didn’t last, however. Before long, his hands were moving seemingly of their own volition, his heart rate multiplying with every lingering touch of skin on skin.

In a small, faraway part of his mind, Sam was aware that Dean was no longer really responding; that he was quiet and oddly still. But those things barely registered. Not when the majority of his mind was occupied with more pressing thoughts. Like the fact that the condoms were in the other room. Or the fact that the other room was really far away. Or the anticipation that this was going to be wonderful.

His hands reached Dean’s jeans, his fingers searching for the zipper, when Dean stiffened against him.

A second later, he felt Dean’s hands on his chest. They were pushing at him, not desperate, but insistent. Sam tore himself away, moving as if scalded, all thoughts of sex wilting like a dying flower. He watched in apprehension, and a little fear, as Dean scuttled to the opposite side of the couch, one hand clamped over his mouth.

“Dean?”

Dean stared at the ground, mumbling words through his fingers. Sam had to strain to make them out.

I’m sorry. Dean was saying I’m sorry. Over and over again.

Growing more afraid now, Sam asked, “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Dean’s hand dropped to his side. Shaking his head, but still looking resolutely at the ground, he muttered, “No. That’s not . . . ”

“Dean. Hey, come on. Look at me.” Sam reached a hand out automatically, intending to calm, to try and right whatever wrong he’d just inflicted, but Dean cringed away.

“Shit, I was hoping this wouldn’t . . . I thought I could . . . ”

Dean’s voice was stilted, the words coming out steeped in a kind of bewildered agony so that Sam could only desperately wonder how to bring Dean back from whatever precipice he was teetering on.

“Hey, you’re scaring me. Talk to me,” Sam pleaded.

Dean just continued to shake his head.

“Did I hurt you?”

“It’s not you, Sam. It’s me.”

That comment, maybe intended to help him feel better, only served to freak Sam out even more, because that line was always a lie. He knew damn well that whenever someone said that, what they really meant was, It is you. It’s all you.

He was about to open his mouth to say something else, although he wasn’t exactly sure what that something would be, when Dean finally turned his head to face him.

Even more upsetting than having Dean push him away, or flinch away from him, was the fact that Dean was crying. Not hard. Just enough to darken his eyes. Just enough for a few lone tears to shine against his skin.

“Dean?”

“Ever since I left that place, I’ve been having these dreams. Nightmares.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

“People, men mostly, hurting me. They’re holding me down. And there’s always sex. And they’re always hurting me.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“When I’m awake, I feel so weird. Half the time I’m scared, half the time I’m angry. And I’m not even really sure why.”

Dean paused and wiped at his eyes. “Yesterday, I went out with a couple of old friends. Nothing big, we just went to Sizzler for dinner. When they saw me, they both gave me a hug, clapped me on the back, and it took everything I had not to throw up.”

Horrified, understanding now, Sam asked, “And you had the same reaction from me?”

“No!” Dean said quickly. “No . . . I don’t know.” He stopped and shook his head. “Maybe a little. I’m sorry. At first it felt good, then I got . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t explain it.”

“Dean . . . ”

“What’s wrong with me, Sam? I must have slept with more than a hundred strangers, they did whatever they wanted to me and I didn’t care. Now my boyfriend kisses me and I freak out. What’s happening to me?”

Sam took a brief, precious moment to savor that fact that Dean had called him his boyfriend before reaching forward, this time tenderly taking hold of Dean’s arm and drawing him close. He was relieved that this time Dean did not shy away.

“I’m no expert, but I can take a guess at what’s going on.”

Dean looked up at him. “What?” he asked in a voice so small it seemed to come from a thousand miles away.

“I’m guessing that to work in that place, you probably had to put up a lot of walls, a lot of barriers, to survive.”

Dean shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I guess.”

“And now that you’re no longer there, you’ve started to let the barriers down. Probably without even realizing it. But all the shit you went through, everything they did to you, it’s still there, Dean. That stuff doesn’t just go away. And now, without the barriers, it’s started to manifest itself. Like a version of post-traumatic stress.”

Dean stiffened against him, his words cold. “I’m not crazy.”

“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that those things you went through, they were bound to leave scars. I think what you’re going through is really normal.”

“God, Sam, do you really think so?”

The glimmer of hope in Dean’s voice was unmistakable and Sam felt such a rush of affection for the man it was almost suffocating.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” he assured him. “No more lies or half-truths, remember? That’s kind of our motto.”

Dean gave a shaky laugh before wiping at his face with his hands. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“You shouldn’t. What you’re going through is real, Dean. And we’re going to take care of it. One day at a time. One thing at a time.”

“But not tonight, ok?” Dean asked. “I don’t want to deal with this shit anymore tonight. I just want . . . I want a nice, normal night together. Can we do that?”

Sam planted a kiss on Dean’s forehead. He could do that. He was pretty sure he could do whatever Dean needed. “You bet.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After delivered Chinese food (which they ravenously devoured), an Eddie Murphy movie on cable, and a couple of cold beers, Sam and Dean found themselves in bed, comfortably wrapped around each other in the inky darkness.

There had been no sex, nothing even resembling sex, only a few chaste kisses before they bid each other goodnight. And that suited Sam just fine. He was full, sleepy and content. If his vocal chords could do it, he’d be purring.

Just as his waking mind was about to give up the ghost and give in to sleep, the whisper of Dean’s voice came to him, cutting through the dark and the quiet.

“I’m scared.”

And just like that, Sam was awake and alert. Frightened. “Dean?”

The body in his arms shifted a bit, but otherwise did not move. Sam was about to sit up and turn the light on when Dean spoke again.

“I’m scared that I was in there so long that I won’t know how to act in the real world. I’m scared that my dad is going to fall off the wagon and I won’t be there to help this time. I’m scared that people on the street are going to look at me and know what I’ve done - like I’m carrying around a big sign around my neck that says ‘whore’. I’m scared that I’m gonna run into my old customers. I’m scared about my feelings for you. I’m scared because I’ve never felt this way about anybody before. I’m scared because suddenly I’m a straight man in a gay relationship and I don’t know how that works. And the whole thing is just so bizarre if you think about it. And . . . well, yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Sam snuggled Dean a little closer and kissed the top of his head. “Babe, that’s a lot of stuff.”

“You’re telling me.” Then in a smaller voice he added, “I hate being scared.”

Sam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, using the time to think of what he was going to say. He had a feeling that it had taken a lot for Dean to open up and admit those things to him, not just once, but twice in one night. He wanted - no he needed to say the right thing.

“Do you know what I love about you?” he began. “I mean, besides your love for classic cars and your great record collection?”

He felt Dean shake his head.

“It’s how strong you are.”

“I just finished telling you how scared I am.”

“And one has nothing to do with the other. I’ve tried to imagine what I would have done in your situation. And Dean, I don’t think I would have lasted a week. How you did it, I can’t even begin to fathom. But no matter how strong you are, you’re not Superman. In fact, I think I’d be really worried if you weren’t afraid.”

“You know for some reason I thought that once I got out of there, that everything would magically be ok. But it’s not. It’s not at all.”

“But it will be. You just have to give yourself some time. And then, one by one, those fears are going to go away. You’ll ease back into the real world. You’ll realize that your dad’s going to be fine, because we’re going to make sure that he is. You’ll see that strangers are not going to know what you did. And even if you do run into an old customer, you’re gonna walk away with your head held high because you were doing what you had to do for your father . . . and they were just a bunch of sick perverts.”

Sam knew he was doing ok when Dean chuckled. He breathed a little sigh of relief and continued. “As for you and me, we’ll I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little scared too. But I know we’re gonna figure it out together, just like we’re gonna figure out everything else.”

Dean lay quiet for a long time after that, long enough that Sam had figured he’d drifted off to sleep. He was about try to sleep himself when Dean spoke again.

“You have a real way with words, Sam. Maybe you should be a shrink instead of a lawyer. Or a bartender.”

“Mmm . . . bartender or lawyer. I think I’ll stick with lawyer.”

Dean laughed but sobered an instant later. “Seriously, Sam - thanks for that. What you just said . . . it helps. God, man, I don’t think I could do this without you.”

Sam spontaneously hugged Dean tight. “You could. But I’m so glad you’re not.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Two days later, Dean leaned against the front door to the apartment, waiting while Sam scurried from room to room, first searching for his cell phone, then his wallet, and lastly his car keys.

He was content to stand there and watch, content to simply enjoy the sight of that long, lean body in motion.

“I think that’s everything,” Sam said as he walked over to him.

“Do you have to go?” he asked.

Sam gave him a bemused look. “I’d love nothing more than to stay here with you and lay like broccoli. But I can’t.”

“Dude, Pretty Woman quotes are so lame.”

“Dude, how do you know that’s from Pretty Woman?”

Dean paused while trying to think of a suitable comeback. There was none. He was busted. “Touche,” he grumbled. But he was not angry. Far from it. “But I still don’t understand why you can’t just call the school and tell them you’ll be back next semester.”

“Because if I want to keep my good standing in that school, I’ve gotta talk to the dean in person. Otherwise there’ll be no other semester for me. Ever.”

“Yeah, ok.” Dean shrugged, trying to play it off as if it didn’t matter to him. But it did. For some reason, he really didn’t want Sam to leave him. It was a disquieting feeling, because he was not a clingy person, even in the most intense of relationships.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise. Then maybe we can go out to lunch, catch a movie or something.”

“That sounds good.”

“Ok, I’d better get going before I’m late,” Sam said as he leaned down and gave him a quick peck. “Love you.”

Dean froze. “I . . . um . . . ”

“Don’t freak,” Sam said as he smiled. “I don’t expect you to say it back. But I like to say it. Ok?”

Dean only nodded, still not trusting his voice to come up with actual words. He moved away from the door and watched as Sam opened it and walked out.

“Sam, I . . . ” he started to say, but once again he faltered and his words simply died out.

“Dean, it’s ok. I’ll see you soon, all right?”

And with that Sam was gone, leaving Dean to shut and lock the door, all alone in the apartment.

He walked over to the couch and collapsed on it with a long sigh. He felt like such an idiot, freezing up like that just because Sam had told him he loved him.

And for what reason? If he had to be honest with himself, he wasn’t that far off from that feeling himself. In fact, he was pretty sure he was only a small step away from falling in love with Sam.

But still, he wasn’t completely sure, mostly because he had never been in love before to know what it felt like.

He had thought he’d been close a couple of times, but looking back on those relationships now, what he had felt toward those girls was a sad, pale version of what he felt toward Sam.

As he tilted his head back against the cushions, his thoughts drifted to a long-ago conversation he had had with his friends. It had been a big group of them, guys and girls, and they had snagged a bunch of 12-packs and had driven their cars up into the hills. After a few beers, the conversations had turned deep and philosophical and the girls had started talking about soul mates. Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Napoleon and Josephine, the list went on and on. Dean had called bullshit, just like all the other guys had, and the girls had turned up their noses and ignored them.

But now . . . now he had to wonder if those girls hadn’t been right. How else to explain what he and Sam had? Not that things were always easy between them, because lord knew they’d been plenty tough, but they had always seemed right. Even during the worst of times, they’d seemed right.

So right in fact, that he’d confessed his deepest, darkest fears to Sam two nights ago, something that he would never think of doing with anyone else.

And yet . . . he closed his eyes, feeling a flare of guilt at the thought that he hadn’t told Sam how close he’d come to almost moving away. More than half of his things had been packed before he’d come to his senses and realized that he couldn’t just run away from Sam like some filthy thief in the night. He owed it to Sam to at least try to overcome the differences that stood between them. Hell, he owed it to himself.

Just then a knock came at the door, breaking into his thoughts and scattering them apart. Frowning, he lifted his head. “Now who could that be?” he muttered.

He waited to see if they’d knock again. And they did, longer this time, louder.

He stood and made his way to the door. It was probably some Girl Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses or something. Resigning himself to have to listen to some kind of spiel, he opened the door.

What he saw was not at all what he expected. On the other side of the threshold stood a tall, older man. Although he was dressed casually, there was an almost regal air about him, as if it were beneath his station to even be there.

And although Dean had never seen the man before, there was something in the planes of his face that struck him as familiar.

“Um . . . can I help you?” he asked.

Instead of answering, the man said, “You must be Dean.”

Something about the way those four words were spoken put Dean in defensive mode. He crossed his arms across his chest and coolly looked the man up and down. “Yeah. And you are?”

“I’m Sam’s father.”

Dean straightened so quickly there might as well have been a drill sergeant yelling in his ear. “Oh,” he said, feeling very stupid and very young and very poor all at the same time. “Mr. Keller. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said as he stuck out his hand.

Sam’s father didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He merely looked at the outstretched hand as if it were a particularly loathsome thing.

Dean pulled his hand back, feeling stung. “Okay. Um . . . Sam’s not here right now.”

“Yes, I know.” And with that, Sam’s father pushed past Dean into the apartment.

Dean just stared at him, watching him wander around the living room as if he owned it. He’d always gotten the feeling that Sam didn’t particularly care for his father. Now he could see why. He’d only known the man for two minutes and already he didn’t like him.

“Ok, great. Just make yourself at home,” he muttered under his breath. He took a step toward the door, intent on shutting it.

“Don’t close it. There’s someone else with me.”

Just as Dean was about to ask the man what he was talking about, the front door was slammed all the way open.

Dean turned his head, and with a sinking feeling of horror, watched as Eagon stepped into the apartment and closed and locked the door behind him.

His throat closed up on him and for a terrible moment he simply couldn’t breathe. He struggled with it, fighting to get air into his lungs, fighting just to inhale. “What is this?” he finally managed to ask in a dry, pained whisper.

Eagon smiled then, a ghastly, twisted grin and lifted his arm.

In his hand, gripped tightly by its handle, was a large butcher knife.

Still grinning like a madman, he turned the knife in the air, letting the light dance upon the blade.

“Hello, Dean.”


	14. Chapter 14

At first there was only mind-numbing terror as Eagon slunk toward him, knife in hand, jack-o-lantern grin spread across his face.

Then, because he always seemed to be able to spit out a wise-ass comment even in the worst of situations, Dean said, “Let me guess - you’re here to drop off my last check, right?”

And then the terror receded, just a little, just enough so that he felt himself regain a semblance of control. And that’s when he moved, broke sharp and hard to the left and made a beeline for kitchen, intending for Eagon to follow him so he could then fake back to the door.

But Eagon was freakishly fast, and was on him before he’d barely made it anywhere. Eagon’s body slammed into his own, hard, and they went down together. Dean lashed out and threw what would have been a solid punch . . . had Eagon not blocked it. Before he could even think about trying again, Eagon reared back and slammed his fist into Dean’s temple, sending him flying to unconsciousness.

When he awoke, he was sitting on the floor, propped up against the couch. His wrists, he instantly noted, were tied behind his back. Tight. His head was a solid mass of pain from the temple all the way down to his shoulder. It hurt so badly, he wanted nothing more than to curl up and whimper it away.

He didn’t though, mostly because the heavy weight that was Eagon sitting on his legs was bringing the terror back with a vengeance.

He turned, squinting against the pain, toward Sam’s father who was standing only a few feet away. “So does this mean that I’m not invited over for Christmas dinner?”

The fist across his mouth sliced into his lip, drawing blood and reigniting the pain in his head. He had to fight, literally fight, to keep from throwing up. But it was worth it. Somehow it was worth it, because when Dean had nothing else, he had his words. And sometimes that was enough.

“See what I mean, sir?” Eagon was saying. “Funny. This guy’s damn funny.”

“Now Eagon,” Keller soothed. “The boy’s merely using humor as a defense mechanism. I suppose he can’t be faulted. You’ve got to rely on something when you’re offering your body night after night to strangers so you can save your father from his gambling habits.”

The words were intended to hurt, and they did, but somehow Dean managed to smirk. “Eagon, you’re such a gossip.”

“Not Eagon, Dean,” Keller corrected. “I make it a point to know about everyone that works for me. Especially those in the Palace. Especially those that corrupt my boy.”

Dean frowned, struggling to make sense of the information that was being thrown at him, but it was too much. Too much too fast - especially with the long blade of the knife never more than two feet away from him.

“Eagon, for God’s sake. Give him a little breathing room so he can process.”

Dean blinked up at Sam’s father in surprise.

The old bastard read my mind.

When the knife was lowered Dean took a thankful, shuddering breath before speaking. “You own that place? This whole time - it’s been you?”

Keller simply nodded.

“Does Sam know?”

“Of course not. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I don’t get it. You think I’m corrupting your son, then why let me out? So you could do this?”

Once again Keller nodded. “It was the only way to get to you without drawing attention to the Palace. Believe me, I would have preferred to do it there, but even I can’t hide a homicide in that place.”

“Get to me?” Dean asked, his voice rising as a tide of horror and understanding washed over him. “Oh God, you had this planned. You had this all planned.”

“That’s not true, Dean. I even gave you a chance. If you’d just walked away from my son when you were released, none of this would be happening. But you chose not to. You chose to continue to infect my son with your sickness -”

“My sickness. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your homosexuality.” Keller spit the offending word out as if it were bitter poison. His anger, his disgust, were so strong they were like living, breathing things.

“Your son’s a homosexual,” Dean said. He had meant for the words to be forceful, to show the man how much of a hypocrite he was being, but his voice betrayed him and they came out sounding meek instead.

Keller took a step forward, lips snarling. He no longer looked the part of a refined gentleman but more like an enraged animal. “No, he isn’t. My son is naive and easily influenced.” He paused for a moment, looking even angrier if that was possible. “First that other one and now you. Why can’t you bastards keep away from my boy?”

It was then that the thought came to Dean. It blind-sided him actually, like a speeding car that slams into you without you even knowing it was coming your way. This man, Sam’s own father, had been responsible for Jess’ death. He knew it as surely as if he had seen it happen. And he knew, without a doubt, that his own death would come at the hands of the man. Eagon might be holding the knife. Eagon might be the one to wield it. But Sam’s father would be the one to order it. And he would be the one to take perverse satisfaction in it.

“You killed Jess,” he finally said in a low, gasping whisper.

“I had to. Sam wouldn’t listen to me. I had to get him away from my son.”

“Killing him almost destroyed your son!” Dean yelled. He was angry now and that was better. There was less fear when he was angry. “They loved each other, you sick fuck.”

“Sam wasn’t in love with that degenerate. Any more than he’s in love with you. And when you’re gone, he’ll finally go back to the life he’s supposed to have.”

Dean turned away then, no longer able to look at the man, suddenly exhausted. “The police thought that Jess was killed by a serial killer. I looked it up.”

“Yes. One before. Two after.”

“You killed them too, didn’t you?”

“I had to. I had to make it look like a complete stranger had done it. I had to make sure that they never suspected me or my boy.”

“Jesus, you are insane,” he said, turning his head back to Keller. “You realize that, don’t you? That you’re completely off your fucking rocker?”

That earned him yet another fist to the face.

Keller took a step forward, hands out as if he were beseeching him. “Is it insane to want the best for my child? This is my heir we’re talking about. The heir to the Keller fortune.”

Before Dean could respond, Keller lowered his hands and said, “We’ve wasted enough time, Eagon. Just get on with it.”

Dean watched as Eagon clenched the knife in his hands, bringing it close once more.

“Yes, sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Sam eased carefully onto the highway, he turned on the radio and started to flip between stations. Looking for just the right song he bypassed Christina Aguilera and Tears for Fears and something that sounded like angry men on the warpath. He was about to turn the radio off altogether and hunt for a cd when he came across Carry on Wayward Son.

Perfect.

He cruised down the highway, singing along to the song, feeling like he had not a care in the world; like all was right with the universe and his place in it.

And that’s when the pain started.

It started at his right temple and quickly spread throughout his entire head until it felt as if someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull.

He gasped and shut his eyes against the onslaught, bringing one hand up to his head, fingers digging deep into the flesh in a useless attempt to quell the agony.

The sound of horns honking and the feel of the car swerving forced him to pop his eyes open. He squinted out at the world, maneuvering the steering wheel with one hand while the other continued to dig deep trenches in his head.

Through a combination of a little skill and a lot of luck, he managed to steer the car to the emergency lane. As he slammed it into park, he clutched at his head, moaning long and low into his hands.

Oh God. What the hell was happening?

He screwed his eyes shut only to have a series of images come at him, sharp, fast and unbidden, as real as if they were really taking place in front of him.

The bloody room.

The body lying motionless on the floor.

Advancing upon it.

Kneeling next to it, turning it over.

Dean’s face.

Dean, sightless eyes open in terror and pain - the last things he felt recorded in those eyes for time immemorial.

And then it was over. As quickly as it had begun, the images ended. Sam opened his eyes, blinking furiously, trying to orient himself. He pulled his hands away from his face. The pain was almost gone, only a phantom now.

A pounding on the window startled him, wrenching a gasp from his throat. He turned the car on and got the window down. A man, just a little older than himself was standing outside the car, bent at the waist, looking down at him with concern.

“Are you ok, buddy?” he asked. “You were all over the road back there.”

Sam nodded wildly as afterimage of Dean’s bloody body fired against his eyes.

“Hey, you don’t look too good. You want me to call an ambulance?”

“Dean,” he muttered.

Dean was going to die. The dream was vision now and he was going to die.

Unless . . . unless he was already dead. Unless the vision was showing him what was and not what would be.

Outside the car, the good samaritan was shaking his head, looking confused. “Who’s Dean?”

Sam spared him only one quick glance before throwing the car into drive and pressing his foot on the gas.

He was painfully aware, as he successfully snuck back onto the freeway, that he did not have the luxury of time. There was no time to thank the good samaritan, no time to survey the chaos he probably caused around him. There was no time to wonder why he had been shown this vision, now after so long or time to wonder whether or not he believed in what it showed him.

What he had instead of time was a feeling of dread so strong that it chilled his insides, freezing them until it hurt to breathe.

He had to get back.

He had to get back now.

He gripped the wheel and pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator, pushing the car to go even faster.

He wasn’t even aware that he’d silently started to pray.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean gaped up at the man, Sam’s father, who had so callously ordered an end to his life. Even now, after hearing the words, he couldn’t quite believe that this was real and happening.

He turned his head to look at Eagon and, oh God, but he wished he hadn’t. Eagon’s face was lit up with dark glee. It was more frightening than the order to kill. More frightening even than the sharp metal blade which seemed to shine as it snicked back and forth in the air.

It occurred to Dean then that he should be calling for help - screaming, yelling. It didn’t matter what, just as long as it caused somebody to get their nosy heads in here and stop what was about to happen. He opened his mouth, ready to do just that, but Eagon seemed almost to read his mind and stopped him by landing a solid punch to his stomach.

He coughed and spluttered for air, bending over as much as he was able to deal with the intense pain. As he struggled to get his breathing under control, he was only vaguely aware that some type of cloth was being shoved in his mouth and wrapped tight around his head.

Eagon inched forward and pressed the knife against Dean’s cheek. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this? I’ve fantasized about it, dreamed about it. But I never really thought that it would happen. And now here we are - just like fucking Christmas.”

Dean shook his head back and forth, not negating, but rather trying to get rid of the gag. His effort was futile though, it wouldn’t budge.

Eagon edged even closer, close enough to whisper in Dean’s ear. “You should have been nicer to me, Winchester. Now what’s gone around is gonna come around.”

Dean made a strangled noise deep in his throat. The gag had stolen his chance to call for help. It had stolen his words, his verbal armor. And with the loss of those things came the loss of his anger. Without it, the fear began to seep back inside of him.

The tip of the blade moved downward, to rest at the hollow of Dean’s throat. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, sharp and cold against his skin. He was wondering, in a hysterical kind of way, how much it would hurt to get stabbed there when he felt Eagon’s hand roughly grab his crotch. “You are a pretty little bitch,” Eagon whispered into his ear.

Dean groaned and tried to back away, but of course there was nowhere to go. A savage bite against the side of his neck and he was gasping against the gag, eyes wide. He screwed them shut a moment later, no longer wanting to see.

Not this too. Not this too.

“Eagon, what the hell are you doing?” Keller demanded.

He felt Eagon pulling away. “Give me ten minutes with him, sir. I’ll take him in the other room. I’ll make him suffer a hundred times worse than the other one did.”

There was a pleading note in Eagon’s voice that unnerved Dean almost as much as the knife against his skin. He held his breath and waited for Keller’s decision.

To rape or not to rape. That is the question.

Dean almost giggled as the thought popped into his head, then he realized that the fact that he found that funny at all probably meant that he was losing it.

“Just do what I pay you to do, Eagon.”

Dean shakily released his breath against the gag. He’d been spared that at least. Now he only had a vicious death to look forward to.

As he lay there, waiting helplessly for Eagon to begin, his mind raged at how unfair this all was. He’d been through so much - losing his mother to the car accident, almost losing his father to alcohol, almost losing himself to the brothel. He deserved something good, dammit, not this. He deserved Sam. He deserved the chance to be happy and-

The first thrust of the knife hit him somewhere in the lower mid section, cutting off his thoughts and spreading pain throughout his entire body. His eyes flew open and he kicked out with his legs, pushing his body back hard against the couch, aching for somewhere to go.

When the second thrust came, lower this time, in the meaty part of his thigh, he screamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Luck had been with Sam Keller from the moment he pulled off the freeway and raced back to his apartment. He didn’t encounter any cops, the traffic was relatively light and all the lights were green. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d think there was someone watching over him, manipulating events in his favor. But he didn’t believe in things like guardian angels, or whatever something like that might be called. Visions were one thing. Creatures with that kind of power were another. So for now he chalked it up to luck and was damn thankful to have it.

By the time he had made it to his apartment door, his trembling hands fumbling and almost dropping the keys, he was frantic with feeling that his hourglass of time had run empty.

He inserted the key in the lock and turned it, then slammed open the door and ran in like a man possessed, only to come up short at the scene before him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, as it will oftentimes do when you’re witnessing something horrible.

He saw Dean on his back on the floor, hands obviously bound behind him and gagged. He saw the hulking man that kneeled beside him, the knife he held poised in midair, blade stained dark.

He saw the blood, not just on the knife, but seemingly everywhere. It covered Dean and the stranger in wide splatters, pooling on the carpet.

And finally, with one last sweep of his eyes, Sam saw his father.

His mind did a double-take on that one, and for a moment he had to wonder if this was all just some fucked up dream. Why would his father be here, watching Dean die? It didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t be right and it couldn’t be real.   
.   
How long they stayed like that, a frozen tableau, Sam would never know. He would relive that day often, going over and over it in his mind, but he could never pinpoint how long he had stood there, staring at his father, trying to determine if this was reality or illusion while Dean bled out on the floor.

It was Eagon who moved first, breaking the spell that had seemed to settle down on them all. He stood up with a grunt, raising the knife high, and lunged at Sam.

Sam turned away from his father and focused on the man coming at him with madness and fury in his eyes. Seeing him ignited his own fury, a thousand times stronger than those times when he’d gone to visit Dean and he’d been hurt in some way by one of his customers. Back then he had struggled with the need to punch or strangle someone. This time what he felt was an overwhelming need to tear someone apart, rend them limb from limb, muscle from bone.

And the man that was coming at him, the man who’d made Dean bleed, was the perfect candidate.

They met in the middle of the room, like two juggernauts hurtling toward each other, their combined energy almost cancelling each other out, causing them both to stumble and fall.

As they struggled against one another, Sam could hear his father’s voice, distant and far away. “Eagon, stop.”

So this was Eagon, Sam thought as the knife arced down toward him, missing his face by mere inches. Dean had mentioned him once. Dean had told him how much he hated the man. He had seemed afraid of him. That simple thought reignited the fury, suffusing his body with what felt like the strength of ten men. He reached up and wrapped one hand around Eagon’s throat, the other around the wrist of the hand that held the knife. He used momentum to flip them over so that he was straddling Eagon, then he squeezed as hard as he could, feeling the grating of bones in Eagon’s wrist. He kept squeezing until Eagon’s hand opened and the blade dropped to the floor with a useless thud. He kept squeezing, this time focusing on the tender throat underneath him, his only desire to destroy that flesh, to press in until it disintegrated.

After a couple of minutes Eagon’s frantic struggles grew weaker, until finally his eyes drooped closed and his entire body went lax.

Sam let go and stood on shaky legs. He didn’t know if the man was dead or not, he hoped he was, but he couldn’t waste anymore time on him. He had to see to Dean.

Flexing his hands, he turned to his father. His father, who was holding his hands up as if to ward something off. His father who was shaking his head and backing away, saying, “Sam, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s not . . . ”

Sam didn’t let him finish the sentence. He stalked over to him, raised a hand and landed a solid punch to his face. His father went down, hard, and stayed down. Sam turned away from him without a second glance. He couldn’t think about why his father was here or what his presence meant. He was pretty sure that he would go a little bit insane if he were to do that. And he just couldn’t afford to waste any more time. How long had it been since he’d walked in here? How long had Dean lay bleeding? Thinking about his father could wait until later; until he had the luxury of losing his mind.

He jogged over to where Dean lay so still and dropped to his knees beside him. Dean, who was always so strong and vibrant, now looked fragile and broken.

He lifted Dean’s head with great care and rested it on his lap. Then he gently tugged the gag out of his mouth, lowering it so that it lay against his throat.

“Dean?” he whispered as he ran his fingers through Dean’s sweat-soaked hair. “Oh God, Dean. Oh my God.”

There was so much blood everywhere, some of it still flowing. and he wanted to do something to help, to staunch the bleeding, to make things better, but he didn’t dare touch Dean. He knew he should stand up and call an ambulance, but he couldn’t bear to break away from him.

Stupid. So stupid. You were so happy, you lost sight of the dream, you forgot the warning.

He never should have left Dean alone. He had been stupid and sloppy and now Dean was hurt, maybe dying, right in his arms.

And then Dean’s eyes fluttered open.

Sam choked back tears, freezing in place. “Dean?”

Dean stared up at the ceiling, his gaze weary and unfocused, before turning it to Sam. His lips moved soundlessly.

Sam leaned down, his ear against Dean’s mouth, and listened.

And then he heard it, just a broken whisper, more insubstantial than smoke. It brought fresh tears to his eyes, that one word.

“Sammy . . . ”


	15. Chapter 15

Sam sat in the emergency waiting room and stared down at his blood-flecked hands. He had tried to wash the blood off - Dean’s blood, his mind reminded him - but no matter how hard he had scrubbed, some of it stubbornly remained. It was dry now, itchy and tight against his skin. Looking at it, he wished for cessation of thought, for oblivion.

But oblivion wouldn’t come.

Not when the memories were so fresh.

And so insistent.

With startling clarity he remembered how Dean had uttered his name before his eyes had rolled back in his head and he’d lost consciousness. He remembered the desperate call to 911, the arrival of the police and paramedics as they swarmed into his tiny apartment.

He remembered Eagon being led away in handcuffs, apparently not dead after all, and how the big man had, in a guttural half-whisper, told the police how Alton Keller had hired him to kill Dean Winchester. And Jesse Moynihan. And three other people whose names meant nothing to Sam.

It was at this point that the memories began to blur and take on a surrealistic hue. The paramedics securing Dean to the stretcher before spiriting him away, the police taking his father away, his own desperate begging to be allowed to go to the hospital - all of it barely recalled. The subsequent ride to the hospital, the statement that he gave the police, all of it rendered into snippets of sepia-toned memory, flashing dim next to the knowledge that Dean was dying only a few yards away from him.

So he sat, hunched over, staring at his bloody hands, while his mind clutched and clung to the recent past. Sometimes, subversive thoughts of his father would creep into his brain and he would hear Eagon’s accusations all over again, but he pushed these thoughts away as quickly as he could, discarding and trampling them before they became fully formed.

It was the sound of the emergency room doors whooshing open that pulled Sam’s attention away from memory. He lifted his head dully to see what poor soul would be joining them now.

When he realized that it was John Winchester walking into the hospital, he shot straight up in his seat, forgetting all about blood-covered hands or traitorous fathers.

Although he had never seen the man, there was no doubt in Sam’s mind that this was Dean’s father - not when he could see so much of Dean in the planes of the older man’s face.

Sam watched as John jogged up to the nurse at the reception desk, his face grim and frightened yet determined.

Sam uncurled his body from the chair and made his way over to him. Despite still harboring some residual feelings of hostility toward the man (he didn’t think he would ever get over the fact that he had allowed his son to become a sex slave just to save his own ass), he felt that he should talk to him. After all, they were both here for the same person. And they were both hurting.

He gave John a light tap on the shoulder, taking a step back when the other man whirled around.

“Yeah?”

And that’s when Sam’s mind decided to go blank. He stood there, his mouth opening and closing like an air-starved fish’s, unable to come up with even a simple greeting.

John looked him up and down, lip curling in what could have been disgust, could have been anger. “Look, buddy, I’m . . . ” Then he stopped and looked, really looked, at Sam’s shirt and the blood that stained it. “Are you him? Are you Sam?”

The question broke Sam’s vocal paralysis. “Yes, sir.”

And suddenly, John’s hands were fisted in Sam’s shirt, fingers digging into even the skin underneath. “Did you hurt him? Did you hurt my son?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head in denial and horror. “God, no, I would never . . . ”

John began to shake him. “Did you hurt Dean?” his growled, face only inches away from Sam’s.

Sam grabbed John’s hands and tried to pull them away, but the man’s grip was like a vice. If he didn’t let go soon, Sam thought, he was going to have to defend himself. And while the thought of taking physical action against Dean’s father wasn’t what he wanted to do, he could only handle being made to feel like a rag doll for so long.

The decision was taken out of his hands when a police officer appeared at John’s elbow. “Is there a problem here?”

John shook his head and abruptly let go, sending Sam stumbling backward. “No, officer.”

The police officer didn’t appear convinced, but he let it go. “Are you John Winchester?” he asked, turning to John.

“Yes.”

“I’m here to escort you to the surgical waiting room.”

“Yeah, ok.”

“Wait,” Sam said, stepping forward. “Surgery? Dean’s in surgery?”

John turned to the police officer, effectively ignoring the question. “I’m ready.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me he was in surgery?” Sam cried. “How bad is he?”

The police officer finally turned to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Keller. But you’re not family.”

Sam felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Because here, as Shakespeare wrote, was the rub. He and Dean were together, they cared about each other, but they were not family. And they never would be. At least not in the eyes of the law.

“Mr. Winchester, please . . . ” he said.

“Not a good idea for you to be around me right now,” John said as he turned and followed the police officer through the restricted doors of the ER.

Sam stood and watched them go, fighting the angry tears that were threatening to spill. After a while he wandered back to his chair, studiously ignoring the looks of the curious and began to wait once again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a lot of deliberation, Sam decided to stay in the emergency room. It was clear that Dean’s father didn’t want Sam anywhere near him, and the surgical waiting room was too small to keep a respectful distance. So in deference to John, who Sam recognized was a father in pain, he stayed where he was, trying to glean whatever information he could about Dean from the nursing staff. Unfortunately, most of them wouldn’t tell him anything, not even something as simple as whether Dean was alive or dead.

He began to avoid the older nurses and their dirty looks like the plague. He had come to realize that the younger the nurse, the more willing she was to share information, even if it was just to tell him that Dean was still in surgery and there was no update.

After some time, Sam wandered over to the farthest corner of the room and sat down, dropping his head into his hands with a heavy sigh.

He was tired and frightened and angry and his defenses were at about nil. And eventually, even though he didn’t want to, fiercely didn’t want to, he began to think about his father and what it had meant that he had been there, watching Dean get butchered.

As so often happens with thoughts, one melted into another and before long his mind was drifting back to the day that he had come out to his parents. Even now, so many years later, he could recall every detail, every thought and word and deed. It had been summer, right before the end of school. With a straight back and head held high, he had told them both right before dinner, three days before his 18th birthday. His mother had gotten a blank look on her face and had excused herself to go upstairs, presumably to drink herself into a stupor. She had never mentioned it again and if he ever tried to bring it up, she would resolutely ignore him. His father however . . . that had been a different story. He had been furious. Sam could remember even now, the satisfaction he had felt at seeing his usually implacable father so out-of-control upset. He had relished every shout, every slam of a door, every frenzied step. Relished it until the day his father had started to go into an almost fanatical denial, asserting with vehemence that Sam was not gay, just confused.

His father blamed everyone but Sam for his “confusion.” The media, Sam’s friends, his own wife, all became part of a great conspiracy to make Sam believe he was gay. For a while, Sam enjoyed even that, but eventually it got old, and after awhile, he decided it was best just to stay as far away from his father as possible. He had moved out two months later and had never looked back. Every so often, he and his father would rehash the gay issue. His father would insist he wasn’t gay, that he was under the influence of some bad people. Sam would insist that he was gay and that it was natural and nothing to be ashamed of. And they reached the same impasse every single time, neither one able to convince the other, both coming away frustrated and angry.

Sam felt the stirring of dull agony as he realized that this was all his fault. If only he hadn’t come out to his parents in the first place, none of this would have happened. Or if he’d just given in to his father and told him what he wanted to hear - that being gay was just a passing phase and he’d be over it soon. If he had done either of those things, Jess would still be alive and Dean would be in no danger.

So much death, so much pain . . . and all because of him. All because he’d enjoyed pushing his father a little too much. All because his stupid pride wouldn’t allow him to let the issue go even when it was obviously past the point of not mattering.

The sound of approaching footsteps brought him back from the deep well of his thoughts, alerting him to the fact that someone was near him.

The brush of fabric against his own shirt sleeve told him that the person had taken the seat right next to him.

Great, he thought. Another reporter.

Sam knew the police had their people guarding most of the entrances but every once in a while one of these guys managed to sneak in.

He supposed he almost couldn’t blame them. This was the story of the century. Snorting, he could almost imagine the headlines:

Leading local businessman and billionaire accused of murder and attempted murder. Latest intended victim was gay son’s boyfriend.

Without even lifting his head from his hands, he said, “Look, I don’t have a comment for your story, so why don’t you get lost before I take your little tape recorder and shove it up your ass.”

The person next to him gave a low chuckle. “I’m no reporter, Sam.”

Sam’s head shot up, his body tensing as he came face to face with Dean’s father.

“Dean, is he . . . ?”

“He’s still in surgery. They haven’t told me anything.”

Sam let out a sigh of relief and allowed his body to relax. “Oh. Ok.” An instant later, he was sitting straight up again, casting looks of mistrust at the other man. “Then why are you here?”

John, who seemed to have aged ten years since Sam had seen him last, said, “I’ve been talking to the cops, Sam. They told me you took on your own father and that psycho to help my son. They told me he’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you.”

Once again, Sam found himself at a loss for words. This was the last thing he’d been expecting. No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t been expecting this at all. “I . . .”

“I’m sorry for the way I acted earlier. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you were the one who saved Dean’s life. I owe you a debt of gratitude that I don’t think I can ever repay, Sam.”

“I’d do anything for Dean. You don’t owe me. You don’t owe me anything at all.”

John nodded slowly as if taking this in. “You really love him, don’t you?” he asked.

Sam thought about that for a moment. How to explain that being with Dean had revived him, had brought him back from a walking death? That with Dean he could laugh again, could enjoy things again, could look toward the future and actually see something there? He realized that he had no words to convey what he felt for Dean. Finally, simply, he settled for, “Yes, I do love him. Very much.”

Once again, John nodded in that slow, thoughtful way. Then he clasped his hands together and stared at the ground.

“You know, when Dean told me about you, I didn’t react very well. He probably told you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not real proud of that. If there had been any kind of clue that something like that was coming, I might have handled it better. But there never was. Dean never even showed,” he paused, struggling for words, “the slightest interest . . . nothing . . . until now.”

Sam waited, silent, unsure of where this was going.

“Anyway, Dean’s told me how much he cares about you and he’s made it pretty clear that he intends to be with you - with or without my blessing. So I’ve been trying to get used to it, because . . . well, I need my son in my life.”

John took a deep breath and turned back to face Sam. “Look, I’m not saying that I understand this. And I’m not gonna lie and say I wish things weren’t different, because well . . . I think things would be easier for everyone if they were. But I can say this - all a parent really wants is for their child to be happy. That they find someone that will love them and protect them and care for them. And what you did for Dean today - that leads me to believe that might be you, Sam.”

Sam swallowed past the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “Sir?” he asked, his voice shaky with both hope and bewilderment.

“You’re gonna have to be patient with me though, while I get used to this. I’m kinda set in my ways. But I figure if we both work at it, we’ll get there.” A small smile graced John’s lips. “Even if you are a Sam and not a Samantha.”

Sam returned the smile, although he was still a little too stunned to get it right.

“Well,” John said, nodding as he stood. “I’d better get back. Don’t want to be gone too long.” He tilted his head toward the doors. “You coming?”

Feeling a little like he had stepped into the twilight zone and at the same time like some weight had been lifted from him, Sam nodded dumbly before he stood as well.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later they were given their first piece of good news - that Dean was out of surgery and currently stable. They were told that Dean was strong and obviously a fighter, but that the next 24 to 48 hours would be critical.

Sam and John all but collapsed into each other’s arms at hearing the news, both of them absently wiping at their eyes, both trying not to break down completely in front of the other.

Afterward, they were finally given details. At long last, after so many hours of waiting and not knowing anything and imagining the worst, they were given information.

...multiple stab wounds.

...massive internal and external hemorrhaging.

...two blood transfusions necessary.

... punctured lung

...damage to the left kidney

...damage to the spleen.

Sam felt the onslaught of nausea at hearing the words, but somehow he managed not to turn and puke his guts out all over the floor.

He had to remind himself that as bad as it was, what mattered now was that Dean was alive. He had to hold onto that and concentrate on that.

That, and the fact that Dean would get better.

He would not allow himself to believe anything different.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After five long days, Dean began to show signs of waking up. It was a slow, laborious process though, one that could take up to several days - definitely not like anything Sam had been led to expect from the movies or tv.

Sam spent those days in the ICU wandering around in a bleary fog, held together by fitful patches of sleep and too much coffee.

Sometimes, he and John would go to visit Dean together. Sam would stand beside John and stare down at the broken man lying in the bed - at the monitors, the breathing tube, the too-pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes - and it would hurt so bad that all he wanted to do was walk away from it all, curl up in a corner and cry.

Sometimes, he and John would take turns, one going in to visit while the other one waited outside. When it was his turn, Sam would sit next to Dean and hold his hand and plead with him to get better, promising everything under the sun if Dean would just open his eyes.

It was during this time that Sam’s opinion of John changed. He came to realize, after spending so many hours together, that John Winchester was a good man. Flawed yes, but a good man nonetheless. One who loved his son so much that he was willing to accept his son’s lover into his life, despite his own misgivings and upbringing.

It was a far cry from his own father (even before he had turned into a raging psychopath) and Sam found himself wishing more and more often for Dean’s childhood instead of his own. And it was strange to feel that, to be envious of Dean in that way, but there it was.

Sometimes, Sam would leave altogether and attend to things outside of the hospital. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Life continued to twist and wind on regardless of Dean’s condition and he had responsibilities that he could not shirk.

On the seventh day after the surgery, Sam went to the police station to give yet another statement. He went to see the family’s lawyer to once again discuss the family’s financial and legal position. And finally, he went to see his mother, to give, and get, whatever emotional support he could. He ended up having her lean on him much more than he leaned on her, but that was not unexpected. He had never thought of his mother as a particularly strong person, and he didn’t expect this to suddenly change that. As he drove away from the mansion, he vowed to stand by her and help her. He hoped that in doing so, he would make them into a stronger family, like they should have been all along.

Just as soon as Dean was better.

Everything hinged on Dean getting better.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he finally arrived back at the hospital.

He walked into the ICU to find John pacing up and down in the hall.

“There you are!” John called out when he caught sight of him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. He woke up,” John said excitedly. “Really woke up. They took out the breathing tube and moved him into a private room upstairs.”

The relief almost dropped Sam to his knees. “Oh my God,” he said, clasping a hand to his mouth.

“He’s been asking for you.”

“John, I’m sorry. Everything took so much longer than I-”

“It’s ok,” John interrupted. “I explained everything. He understands.”

“Can I go see him?”

“Why do you think I’m down here waiting for you? Let’s go.”

Sam placed his hand on John’s arm, stillng him before he could move. “John, thank you.”

John shook his head. “Nothing to thank me for, son. Now let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam stood outside Dean’s room, so nervous he felt sick. Which was stupid really, considering he’d been waiting for this moment for days on end, and now he was wasting it by standing in the hall like a scared, little boy.

He took in a deep breath and tried to calm down, but the nervousness wasn’t going anywhere.

What would he say? What would Dean say? Would Dean be angry? What if he never wanted to see him again? What if he was different?

You’ll never know unless you go in there.

Fuck this, he thought angrily. Enough stalling. Dean was asking for him. Dean wanted him in there. He just needed to be a man and get his ass in there and face whatever was to come.

That final thought finally galvanized him into action. With shaking hands and pounding heart, he walked inside.

And there, in the hospital bed in the middle of the room, lay Dean. He looked tired and pale and drawn, but very much alive and very much alert.

He wanted so badly to scoop Dean up in his arms and hold on tight, never letting go. Instead, he settled for taking hold of his hand and placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Dean smiled up at him. “Hey.” His voice was hoarse and weak, but to Sam nothing had ever sounded better.

“Hey,” Sam replied before breaking into a smile of his own. “God, it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

Sam dropped into the chair next to the bed. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

“S’ok. Dad explained.”

“I should have been here. I shouldn’t have left.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

Sam ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, now feather-soft without the gel he usually applied to it. “How do you feel?”

Dean attempted to shrug, ended up wincing instead. “Been better. Been worse.”

“Worse?”

“Ok, probably not worse. But I’m ok. I’ll be ok.”

And at that, Sam broke a little. He lurched forward, tightening his hold on Dean’s hand. “Oh God, Dean. I thought I lost you. When I walked into that room and I saw you like that . . . I thought I had lost you.”

“But you didn’t. I’m still here. Because of you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Sam. You saved my life.”

Sam shook his head, unaware of the tears welling up in his eyes. “I almost lost you.”

“But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam felt one tear spill over and slide down his face. He didn’t bother to wipe it away.

“I knew you’d come, you know,” Dean said somberly.

Confused, Sam asked, “What?”

“In the middle of the . . . ” Dean hesitated, as if it pained him to speak. “In the middle of it, I remembered your dream. Your portent. And that’s when I knew that you were going to come for me. I didn’t know if you’d make it in time, but I knew you would be there.”

Sam took a deep breath, letting it out in a long, steady exhale. He could feel the hair on his arms literally standing on end as he remembered how the vision had assaulted him with its singular clarity. “I saw it. The dream. Except this time it was a vision. It happened right in my car as I was driving to the university. I knew I had to get to you. As soon as it happened, I knew I had to get to you.”

Dean looked at him and nodded, calm and accepting as if visions were normal, everyday occurrences. Then he squeezed Sam’s hand and asked, “Sam? Are you ok?”

Sam blinked in surprise at the question. “Me? Yeah, he barely touched me. Just a few bruises.”

“No, I’m talking about . . . about your father. Are you ok?”

“Oh yeah. That. Um . . . no. No, I’m not.”

“Sam.”

“But don’t worry about it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Sam. I’m worried about you.”

“You’re worried about me? Oh God, Dean. You’re incredible, you know that?”

“Not incredible. Just worried. Talk to me.”

Shrugging, Sam turned his attention to the floor. “What can I say? He killed Jess. He killed those men. He almost killed you. And all because of me. All because he couldn’t deal with who I was.”

“You know it’s not your fault, right?”

Sam looked up, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Dean, of course it’s my fault! It all comes back to me. All of it.”

“Sam . . . ”

“Look, I can’t do this right now. I really can’t. I love you for being concerned, but I just can’t.”

Dean shot him a stern look, the effect of which was ruined by the huge yawn that escaped him a second later. “Ok. But don’t think we’re done talking about this, cause we’re not.”

Sam lifted Dean’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “You look tired. Maybe I should go so you can get some sleep.”

“No. I’m tired of sleeping,” Dean grumbled. And promptly yawned again.

Chuckling, Sam said, “You need to rest, babe.”

“Don’t go, then. Stay with me, Sammy.” Suddenly his eyes opened wide. “You hate that name, don’t you? Sorry.”

“Somehow I love it when you say it.”

A lazy smile graced Dean’s face as his eyes slipped closed, lashes dark against his pallid skin. “Really?”

Sam leaned in close and dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “After this is over, you and I are going to a tropical island for like a month.”

“Sounds good. Girls in bikinis. Piña coladas.”

“Yup, girls in bikinis. Piña coladas. And me.”

“Sounds awesome. I’m so there.”

Sam couldn’t help but smile. Even during the worst times, Dean was . . . well, Dean.

His Dean.

Once again, he kissed Dean’s forehead, then very softly, his mouth.

“I love you, Dean.”

Then he leaned back in his chair and settled in.

He figured he was going to be here awhile. Which was just fine by him, seeing as there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean had lost consciousness to pain and fear and the certainty that he was going to die.

He had woken up to pain and fear, fighting off non-existent attackers and gagging on the tube stuffed down his throat.

His father had been there though and had held his hand and soothed him and calmed him.

Later, after the tube was out and his throat was no longer on fire, he had asked for Sam. His father had explained why Sam wasn’t there and he had understood. But still, he could not, would not, relax until he saw Sam.

It wasn’t so much that he thought he was in any danger - hell, he had his own personal cop bodyguard right outside the room. No, he knew logically that he was safe.

But he didn’t feel safe.

And despite his father’s being with him the entire time, Dean could not shake the low, sly fear that had settled deep into his every pore.

At least, not until Sam had walked into the room. At that moment, the fear had been vanquished, and he had felt safe, protected, cared for.

Now, Dean closed his eyes and relished the feel of Sam’s fingers carding through his hair and the feel of Sam’s hand, warm and strong, enveloping his own. “Really?” he asked.

“After this is over, you and I are going to a tropical island for like a month.”

“Sounds good. Girls in bikinis. Piña coladas.”

“Yup, girls in bikinis. Piña coladas. And me.”

Feeling more groggy by the second, he murmured, “Sounds awesome. I’m so there.”

And it did sound awesome, but Dean wasn’t going to kid himself. He knew tough times lay ahead. He figured, at the very least, that both he and Sam would be spending some quality time with some kind of headshrinker. Because truth be told, he couldn’t even begin to guess which one of them would be more fucked up after this.

But he believed, truly believed without question, that he and Sam would get through this somehow and that they would have their tropical island. Because if anyone deserved it - they did.

Sleep tugged at him again, more insistent this time, and he knew he wouldn’t be awake for too much longer. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t afraid of the coming darkness. He didn’t need to be. Sam was here.

Dimly, as if from very far away, he could feel Sam’s lips against his own, could hear Sam’s soft voice telling him he loved him.

Dean parted his lips and whispered the only words that came to mind. Words that would have once been frightening because they seemed so momentous. Now, they felt simple and honest and right.

In a breathy exhale, and right before he finally surrendered to sleep, Dean whispered, “I love you, Sammy.”


End file.
